Amethyst Review

Hummingbird

Attracted by flowers left in the church
after a wedding, unable to find its way out
though all doors are open, the hummingbird
zips around the large, high-ceilinged space, distracts us
from the service even more than the summer heat.

I worry about it all week, find out next Sunday
that someone thought to move the flowers
to the main doors and it flew to freedom.
If only we could sip the saving grace
of the divine with such ease.

Meg Freer grew up in the 1970s in Missoula, Montana and now lives in Kingston, Ontario where she teaches piano, writes, and enjoys being active outdoors. She writes mostly lyrical poems, which have won awards and have been published across North America. She has published three poetry chapbooks and co-hosts a monthly series featuring poetry performed simultaneously with live improvised music.

Tony Lucas is retired from parish ministry but continues with work of editing and spiritual direction. His poetry has appeared widely on both sides of the Atlantic. Past collections, including Rufus at Ocean Beach (Stride/Carmelyon) and Unsettled Accounts (Stairwell Books) remain available. He is a long-term resident of South London.

Dream 

of a pure — something — 
so clear it barely casts 
a shadow     Scarcely 
wavers when a wind 
picks up     Like spring 
water caught in cupped 
hands — see the lines 
of the palms   slight gaps 
between fingers   opening 
to the shining stream		
beneath     

Katrinka Moore is the author of five poetry books, most recently Diminuendo (Pelekinesis, 2022). Her poems and artwork appear in Terrain.org, Otoliths, Utriculi, Cold Mountain Review, Wild Roof Journal, Woven Tale, and SWWIM, among other journals. She lives in the northern Catskills in New York state and is a longtime Tai Chi practitioner.

In the Fairweather Mountains, Three Ways to Say Farewell
	–Glacier Bay National Park, Alaska

-1-
Bundled against the cold dawn, I stand on the ship’s weather deck and consider the bay’s water—at this moment frictionless, opaque, vast. Who could look into this turquoise magnet and not think of jumping? I could grip the deck's chest-high rail and toe the lowest one, the soles of my shoes slipping a bit on the wet shine. I could convince myself it’s a stepladder, you’re only hanging curtains or changing a lightbulb, then climb—one, two, three rungs—swing a leg over the top, in my ears my pulse a thump thump thump of pain and shame and hope. Both legs over now, I would clutch the rail and offer a litany of sorrows. Failures. Apologies to my loves. I flex my knees, consider the physics. I don’t want to simply let go. I must push myself away, arc as far from the ship as my booted, parka-clad body can manage. Point my toes. Think smooth. Oneness. Gratitude. Pray the shock of cold would take my consciousness before the icy teal reached my lungs. They say a person can survive seven minutes in these waters. Once, I wanted to know how they know that. Now I think it wouldn’t take that long. If ever the cancer or chemo or pain; if ever my trembling became too much.  I’d book a cruise to Alaska and never come back.

-2-
The park rangers come to us before breakfast, in a little boat that bumps against our mammoth one, through fog and frigid waters, the wind roughing their lips and cheeks. They climb aboard on a rope ladder. We are snug in our cabins and do not see. But soon we hear them, stationed around the ship, on its public address, telling us about the bay, the mountains, the glaciers. From our balcony I think I recognize: a lumbering boulder of brown bear on the shore, sea lions sunning shoulder to shoulder like tourists on a crowded beach, a distant humpback whale. When the sun comes out, I cry for the beauty—gray mountains and rocks, a sparkling azure sky, white and aqua ice, otters swimming near the ship, one hitchhiking on a chunk of ice. Later, we gather on the bow to eat pea soup, and even the crew comes out to blink at the brilliance—so rare, they say. I think I am learning: glacial silt, phytoplankton, privilege. But when the ship comes close to the glacier and I hear it rumble and calve, mighty pieces of itself crashing to the water, I finally understand: ancient, holy, separation. Earth, the great maternal beast.

-3-
One of the park rangers says her mom is none too fond of the process, so when it’s time for them to disembark the ship, I am there, representing worried mothers everywhere. On the blustery starboard promenade a few of us gather to watch a small boat, slightly more substantial than a piece of driftwood, motor closer and closer, matching the ship’s speed, until it bumps the hull and steadies enough to tether. A controlled crash, the ranger explained earlier. After several attempts, each of which could be a James Bond action scene, the boat is secure—a relative term. Now, far below us, the rangers one by one descend a rope ladder from the ship’s yawning cargo door. For breathless moments they disappear, then reappear and pause on the lowest rung. There each one dangles, a human windchime, watching the boat below thrash and pitch, waiting for the right moment to drop to its drenched deck. I’m gratified to see their footwear seems sturdy and skid resistant, yet I wince when each lets go. But then they are safe, looking up at us, waving, smiling, victorious. After six rangers, identically clad in orange rain suits, are accounted for, unseen hands toss down duffel after duffel—park merchandise, educational materials, the gear one needs in the Alaskan wilderness. Finally the boat breaks away from the ship and cuts across the bay. Our small group lets out a cheer worthy of the World Series, or better yet, a local Little League game. And the rangers wave, and we wave, and it is a triumph of planning and procedures and the prayers of mothers everywhere, to see them safely become a little dot on the horizon. To know that to someone else they are growing larger. They are coming home.

Kory Wells nurtures connection and community through writing, storytelling, and arts initiatives in and beyond the American South. She is author of two poetry collections, most recently Sugar Fix from Terrapin Books. Her writing has been featured on The Slowdown podcast from American Public Media, won Blue Earth Review’s 2023 Flash Creative Nonfiction Contest, and appears in numerous publications. A former poet laureate of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, she directs a local reading and open mic series and works with the from-home creative writing program MTSU Write.

Questions for St. Augustine I

Is not the prayer requesting aid,
That part of me imbued in need, 
Empty of your presence which fills heaven and earth,
But leaves my private nook neglected? And if you are 
All present as in this pitcher of milk filled to the brim,
Ready to flow, are you not the thirst
That longs and waits?

Pramod Lad was born in India, educated at King’s College UK , and completed his Ph.D. in Biophysical Chemistry at Cornell University. He was a scientist at the National Institutes of Health. His poems have been accepted in The Examined Life Journal, Right finger pointing, Omentum, Eclectica magazine, The Innisfree poetry journal, The Umbrella Factory, The Pulsebeat Poetry Journal , Pennine Platform, and Litbreak Magazine.

Wearing my apron

as i weed my vegetable garden 
the air has cooled and the sun has faded

my chickens cluck near
waiting for a green morsel—weeds

i watch their heads bob as they walk
and a bubble of a smile pulls me away

from weeds, they stay on roots
of kale, carrots, and earthworms

the chickens’ song, that is somehow
reserved for the wheelbarrow,

like it, rusted, with holes as big as my fists
those are the moments

while wearing a worn blue apron
that i know the only thing that counts, 

if only briefly,
—is joy

Amelia Díaz Ettinger is a Latinx BIPOC poet and writer. Amelia’s poetry and short stories have been published in anthologies, literary magazines, and periodicals. She has an MS in Biology and MFA in creative writing. Her literary work is a marriage of science and her experience as an immigrant. Presently, she resides in Eastern Oregon.

we stand in still waters facing the far shore

a river does not always
flood at her narrow
curve but banks burst
where reeds bend
trusting the wind
where soft mud licks
edges slick

a bridge does not always
collapse from rusted beams
tension is sewn into every seam
do not be fooled
by the rivets’ gleam
iron can hide her fatigue
even as she shines

a bone does not always
break where the ache
has settled
but sometimes where sinews
sing of strength

my heart might fracture 
in the center of our embrace
in the clasp of our hands
where our chests come together
where warmth feels forever
and I believe

Jacob Friesenhahn teaches Religious Studies and Philosophy at Our Lady of the Lake University in San Antonio. He serves as Program Head for Theology and Spiritual Action. His first book of poems is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Pilgrimage

How to pass through the ordinary
neighborhoods of local life
as one already on the way
that is the question — like the one
who getting onto the highway, bound
hours down the road, passes
with some surprise the usual exits 
that otherwise lead to the routine
his heart so many miles ahead
that every mile is consecrated
to the destination. What
makes it a pilgrimage besides
intention? What makes the difference
when a door to eternity falls ajar
to let a loved one through, betraying
this supposed room to be
a hallway? And will we ever hereafter
in the draught feel it any other way?

A resident of Portland, Oregon, Laura Trimble taught literature for six years and now homeschools her three sons. Her poetry and prose has been published by Ekstasis, Plough, the Rabbit Room, Calla Press, and Storyboard, as well as in several anthologies, and appears on Instagram at @trimblepoetry.

Now and Then
“If things are real, then they are there all the time.” 
from C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe 

. . . so at the wardrobe she stretched
her hands into the thick 
of fluffed fur, 
and buried her face 
in its endless layers, 
where warmth hung 
and she believed 
in the snug 
of deep-timbered 
darkness,
every limb,
breathing 
the songs 
of wooded worlds

while at this wood desk I reach 
for what is hung
above what I pen, 
a lily
painted
in oyster white
wrapping me in limb,
a robe of petals 
unfurling
its golden heart 
within the whimsy 
of grassland wind
  
beneath the same skies

trusting light 
to throw wide 
today’s leaves

with tomorrow’s 
then . . . 

Lee Kiblinger is a late blooming poet from Tyler, Texas who graduated with a B.A. and M.Ed. from Vanderbilt University. She has taught literature and writing courses for several years. She spends time traveling with her husband, laughing with her three adulting children, grading essays, playing mahjong, and delighting in words with Rabbit Room poets. Her work can be found in The Windhover, Solum Journal, Heart of Flesh, Ekstasis, Clayjar Review, The Way Back to Ourselves, and others. She writes at http://www.ripplesoflaughter.com.

How Writing Can Be a Spiritual Practice 

by Diana Raab, PhD

Spirituality is the search for truth in one’s life in the interest of being happy. Using writing as a spiritual practice can connect us to what seems most right for us, personally and professionally. It can also help us identify our life purpose.

One way to begin writing as a spiritual practice is to write about a life-changing experiences. When I look back at my own life experiences and reflect on what has truly transformed me, challenged me, or made me feel more aware or more alive, the events involved the death of loved ones, relationships with others, being parent, friendship or love relationship. It’s been said that people come into our life for a reason and exploring the reason is something that could be done if using writing as a spiritual practice.

Most writers like myself will confess that they write because they have to write, not necessarily because they want to write. We write out of necessity because it either makes us feel better or we want to share our stories with the world. 

My beginnings as a writer began when I was ten years old. I was the only child of immigrant parents who were gone working all day. My grandmother was my beloved caretaker while they were at work, and on Labor Day in 1964, I was at home with her. 

It was a hot Indian summer day common to the season. We lived in a suburban community along with other immigrant families and their children, so I was excited when a friend invited me to go swimming in her pool. With a child’s enthusiasm, I knocked on my grandmother’s door to ask for permission. There was no answer. I tried several times, but still no answer. I called to her, but there was only silence. I looked inside the room to see my grandmother, completely still, in her bed. Trembling with fear, I phoned my parents at their store. They came home and before I knew what was going on, my beloved grandmother was being carried down our creaky wooden stairs on a stretcher and put into an ambulance. I never saw her again. She had taken her life.

My mother knew I was grieving and wanted to help me through the trauma of my loss. Reaching out to therapists wasn’t done in those days, so she bought me a blank, red leather journal with a saying by Kahlil Gibran at the top of each page. 

For many months after my grandmother’s death, my mother continued to encourage me to write down my feelings. Having been an English major in college, my mother intuitively knew that this was the best way for me to deal with my grief. It was also the time before psychotherapy went mainstream.

For me, writing was a spiritual practice back then and continues to be a very important part of my life today, six decades later. Little did I realize that my mother’s inclination to buy me a journal would set the stage for my lifelong passion for writing. 

 Coincidentally, around that time, my mother gave me my grandmother’s hand-typed journal telling of her early life as an orphan in Poland during and after World War I. It was the greatest gift a granddaughter could ever receive. I devoured every word and used it as a part of my MFA thesis, which turned into my first published memoir, Regina’s Closet: Finding My Grandmother’s Secret Journal.

In that book, I dealt with the two major turning points in my life: losing my grandmother and then discovering her sacred journal. The journal was sacred because of its role in my understanding of my grandmother and why she might have taken her life at age sixty-one.

Studying my grandmother’s life helped me become empowered by her experience and take on the role of a woman warrior. I realized that she had been a survivor for most of her life. 

In continuing my path of writing as a spiritual practice, I returned to school to get my PhD, where I researched the healing and transformative powers of memoir writing. Basically, my research examined how life-changing experiences have inspired some esteemed authors to write the narratives of their lives. I learned that writing one’s story is a way to reclaim one’s voice, share a family secret, or simply relate a personal story to others. 

Writing as a spiritual practice is very liberating and satisfying, because when we release our secrets, we achieve a level of freedom that gives us more control over our lives. Freedom comes in many forms. When I was diagnosed with my first cancer in 2001, I journaled my way to recovery. One thing I acknowledged was the brevity of life. I realized that there is no time like the present to seek bliss by writing down the experiences that brought us joy. I also acknowledged that having toxic people in my life was a bliss deterrent, so as much as possible I tried, and still try, to surround myself with inspiring, positive, and loving individuals. 

During my own journey of writing as a spiritual practice, I’ve learned that I’m not alone in my practice; many writers, such as Anaïs Nin, have used writing in this way. In my own case, pivotal or life-changing events have served as stepping-stones for either new writing projects and/or self-discovery processes—an example being my book, Writing for Bliss.

In my latest book, Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors, a memoir with reflection and writing prompts, I continued my passion for writing as a spiritual practice. I wrote the book during the Covid-19 pandemic when there was a visiting hummingbird outside my writing studio. I came to learn that it was my grandmother returning to deliver me messages.

Overall, what I’ve learned as I use writing as a spiritual practice—and what I also teach others—is that this very personal creative process can bring about a sense of wholeness and, ultimately, a sense of bliss . . . which is what we all ultimately strive for in this life.

Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, workshop leader, thought-leader and award-winning author of fourteen books. Her work has been widely published and anthologized. She frequently speaks and writes on writing for healing and transformation. Her latest book is Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors, A memoir with reflection and writing prompts (Modern History Press, 2024). Raab writes for Psychology Today, The Wisdom Daily, The Good Men Project, Thrive Global, and is a guest writer for many others. Visit her at: https:/www.dianaraab.com. Raab lives in Southern California.