Angel Overboard – a poem by Rupert M Loydell

after Edgar Ende's 'The Thirst'
Everyone on board is looking into the water, wondering where the angel has gone. If they looked behind them they would see seraphic twins hovering.
The angel has not disappeared, for it was never there. Angels do not attach themselves to individuals or ships' crews, cannot be tamed or owned, are simply conjured up by hallucination and want.
Drink deep the salty sea and go mad with thirst. Seek what you desire and never be satisfied. Wholly, wholly, wholly stupid.
   © Rupert M Loydell

Rupert 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)

Wherein the Trail Runner has 1000 Words for the Wind – a poem by Dick Westheimer

Wherein the Trail Runner has 1000 Words for the Wind

Dick Westheimer has – in the company of his wife Debbie – lived, gardened and raised five children on their plot of land in rural southwest Ohio. He has taken up with poets and the writing of poetry to make sense of the world.  He is a finalist for 2021 Rattle Poetry Prize. His poems have previously appeared in Rattle, Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel, Rise Up Review, and Sheila Na-Gig.

What the Monk Said – a poem by Elodie Barnes

What The Monk Said

Stop going hungry
and plant the quiet of midnight

It will root in soft ground and spread
like melted wax into darkness

Listen for the call of the animals whose home
this is - the owl the bat
the night flying moth
They are leaves on the growing stem

(The scent of jasmine will smother
your garden walls
Let it crumble them)

Watch for the moonflower
Its pale petals open only
for the stars that drip milk onto the earth
like water and you will know
when it has drunk its fill
The night will be full
of a language no one has words for

not even you

Look up
The sky is your mirror now
See which of your faces looks back
and welcome it
This is your first fruit

Elodie Barnes is a writer and editor. Her work has been recently published / is forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Lunate, Wild Roof Journal, and Past Ten, and she is Books & Creative Writing Editor at Lucy Writers Platform. When not travelling, she lives on the edge of a wood in northern England and complains incessantly about the weather. 

Madonna – haiku by Moná Ó Loideáin Rochelle

MADONNA haiku 

Vergine madre, figlia del tuo figlio.  Dante

Mother of cracked stone.
Infant in robed arms. Haloes
gold wreathed with rosebuds.

A child’s feet bare, his
taupe hand on her silent heart.
Jesus and Mary.

Pondering again.
Thy will be done, my child whom
I love forever.

Open wide eyes of
sorrow. O, mother mourner,
I no longer know.

Moná Ó Loideáin Rochelle’s poetry can be found or is forthcoming in The Southern Review, Spiritus, Notre Dame Review, Southword, and Wales Haiku Journal. She volunteers for Médecins Sans Frontières. Visit:

Triptych for Cosmic Music – poetry by Melanie Weldon-Soiset

Triptych for Cosmic Music


A garden Temple, vegetation green--
photosynthesis and fruits meant to feed.  
Yet we disdained divine call, and ate greed,
scorning the One who teaches how to sing. 
We didn’t know how to make music, tunes
like meager porridge dribbled from our tongues. 
We starved on our decorum, weakened lungs
no longer billowed once resounding rooms. 
God scattered us, nutrition to be reaped
in silence. An invitation to hear
sacred heartbeats, and feed ourselves afresh. 


But first we must cough up all that still creeps
inside—the toxins, constraining pride, fear.
We’ll have to face what we’ve tried to suppress. 
Have we heard scars release their ancient moans?
From the bottom of the canyon, keening
that bounces off sheer escarpment, meaning
a belly is waking, finally known?
Kinetic energy is freed to gush
throughout a universe anemic—weak
muscles then receive ointment from the shriek.
Symphonies need the sound of salve jars crushed.


One Day Soon
Franciscan monastery replicates
Italian, Near Eastern pilgrimage sites. 
In the Portiuncula, a widow’s mite 
in aria:  a humble voice creates
healing waves. I stand outside to receive. 
Inspired, I head to the catacomb
of Christ. I enter its resonant home. 
With a song from youth, I worship and grieve.
Amniotic sac pulsing, heart that beats,
bidding us babies to grow tongues, grow ears-- 
one day soon: lullabies around the crèche. 

Melanie Weldon-Soiset’s poetry has appeared in Geez, Vita Poetica, and Bearings Online. A 2021 New York Encounter poetry contest finalist, Melanie is a contemplative prayer leader, #ChurchToo spiritual abuse survivor, and former pastor for foreigners in Shanghai. Feel free to sign up for her poetry and prayer newsletter at

The Sacred Dance – a poem by Pratibha Kelapure

The Sacred Dance

The midnight train through the echo tunnel
windows streaked with the monsoon rain
the girl’s braids flap against the pane, 
two curious eyes sparkle
The darkness is lit by the dappled light
On and off, off and on, so on and so on
The tunnel is done, but the light goes on
The girl with the sparkle in her eyes 
Sleep lost to her. Sound of her mother’s
Call is drowned out by the chuk-chuk --
The rhythm of the wheels on the metal tracks
The mystery of the light, the spellbound girl
An occasional red lantern in the rain
And the twinkling, sparkling dots of light
Shifting shape in the dark, a spectacular show
Just for the young girls with the wonder
Still left in their eyes, the spectral, sacred
Dance of the love among the glowworms

Pratibha Kelapure is an Indian-American poet residing in California. Her poems appear in Choice Words: Writers on Abortion (Anthology, Haymarket Books, 2020), Entropy Magazine, Plath Poetry Project, miller’s pond poetry, The Lake, and many other literary magazines.

Glittering Sea – a poem by Sally Thomas

Glittering Sea

After the woodcut print by Yoshida Hiroshi

Print gleam, like the sea
Holding light, the sun’s spillway.
River overlaid

On scratches of swell, 
It shines. Here a man might walk,
A dove fall, a voice

Cry in tongues of light,
This, this. Print the same story
Without naming names. 

In all things, gesture 
To light, as boats, foregrounded,
Trim their sails and turn

To follow the gray
Fleet nearing the brilliant seam
Where the sky begins. 

Sally Thomas is the author of a poetry collection, Motherland (Able Muse Press 2020), and a forthcoming novel, Works of Mercy (Wiseblood Books 2022). Her work has appeared recently in Autumn Sky Poetry Review, Dappled Things, North American Anglican, Plough Quarterly, and Trinity House Review. 

Nothing we see is color – a poem by George Cassidy Payne

Nothing we see is color 

Cezanne said that 
but no one believed him 

        All we really see 
            is light 
valiantly massacred
the mineral-laden earth 
with its zillions of herbal veins 
and carnivorous flowers 

           mere pinpoints of light 
reverberations of molecular light
adorned with ornaments 
of human bones 

George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, New York (U.S.). His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, MORIA Poetry Journal, Chronogram Magazine,  Allegro Poetry Journal, Kalliope, Ampersand Literary Review, The Angle at St. John Fisher College and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared in Nonviolence Magazine, the Fellowship of Reconciliation, Pace e Bene, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, the Havana Times, the South China Morning Post, The Buffalo News and more.

Ciarán of Clonmacnoise – a poem by Richard Manly Heiman

Ciarán of Clonmacnoise

Take my little cow--
the dun one.
Lead her over the hills
the green shower hills        hills
where even the high king
goes. Take her
as an offering
of bone and rhyme.
Take her
as a tanned bard.

My cow is a sacrifice
of milk and leather.
Her hide is 
wearable whey.
Her tongue is 
Her bones fill my skin 
with stories.
She is 
a dazzling beast
with her own story--

I give my 
to the cloistered.
I give my dun 
to the Lebor na hUidre.
I give my 
to the western sea.
I fill the sky
with marrow,
and with psalms.

Richard Manly Heiman lives in the pines of the Sierra Nevada. He works as an English teacher and writes when the kids are at recess. Richard has been published by Rattle, Sonic Boom, Spiritus (Johns Hopkins U.), and elsewhere. His URL is