Amethyst Review

The Rites of Saints and Sparrows

31st August in the year of Our Lord 651,
Cuthbert sees a soul ascending star-shod 
As Aiden is called heavenward home - 
Significance only later learned
When Cuthbert knows his path to tread.

That path, transformed by indifferent tarmac, 
Pockmarked with chewing gum and fag ends,
Would take my teenage feet to town.
I’d search for a stone cross in the hedgerow,
Streakbacked with bird lime,
Marking where Cuthbert’s body lay,
Behind the cricket ground,
On his way to his final resting place,
As traffic transported shoppers 
To shiny out of town superstores 
For Sunday service,
Pilgrims seeking a different shrine.

I’d watch the dunnocks 
As they danced from branch to branch,
In daily defiant devotion, 
Shrill eleisons amid the exhaust fumes,
Shufflewinged detrivitores, 
Their ascetic life more survival than divine office,
Trilling their pater nesters.

15th September, 2024, Common Era,
This morning’s matins light,
Grey with a scuffling of early autumn,
Falls askance
As the organ,
Snoring with Sunday sanctity,
Shudders into being.

Mumbling our mimicked ministrations,
We shuffle eastwards.
There is a pain in my chest
I had not felt before,
Sharp like sorrow
Suddenly recalled.
Hymnbooks fan the air
Like hedge sparrows’ wings…

And there it is again, patterning my private petitions,
The stone cross in another county behind the cricket ground –
I wonder if they are dancing still, my dunnocks, 
Along the hedgerow.

There’s a bench there now
So that you can take time to survey 
The cross or the traffic,
Listen to the cricket or the birdsong.
Faith wears a different cloth depending on where you stand or sit.
But the effect is the same, I suppose, if the wood holds firm.

Clare Morris is a performance poet, writer and reviewer, based in Devon, UK. Her most recent collection is Devon Maid Walking (Jawbone Collective, 2023). She is the editor of The Jawbone Journal (launch date, May, 2025).

Ambergris

conceived in the bowels of the whale
in the belly of the beast
shielding internal organs
from the sharp, steely beaks of swallowed prey
from rending pain and sorrow
laminated with layers of squid guts and bile
born soft, stygian
with the odor of rotting fish and feces
I am Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, 
unbending, impregnable
thrown into a fiery furnace
liberated by conviction
expelled, ejected
the dung of the whale
I am Noah
floating in the flooded wilderness
adrift in the vastness of oceans
that reflect the colors of teal green 
under the burning sunshine
and dark blood aubergine at midnight
I am Jonah
rebellious, defiant
vomited out
washed up on the shore
in the place I was running from
that I was meant to serve
becoming purpose and growth
I am Abraham
hardened from years of service
with a streaky greyish yellow hue
waxy, flammable
a burning candle 
a holy offering on the sacrificial altar
I am Lazurus
with a musky, earthy scent
sweet frankincense and myrrh
and my Lord smells the soothing aroma
incense, essence
offered up as a censer from my soul
and knows that my pain has infinite value
and that my sinful past has worth

After retiring recently, Mark James Trisko heard his muses yelling loudly in the night begging him to let their voices be heard. His work has appeared / is scheduled to appear in Valiant Scribe Literary Journal, Spirit Fire Review, Amethyst Review, As Surely As the Sun, and Down in the Dirt. He currently lives in Minnesota, with his beautiful spouse of 47 years, four wonderful children and eight above-normal grandchildren.

High-Rise Heaven

1.
Sunday evening slump, body
beat. Heat clings to the balcony
as if overlooking a cauldron.
Clouds clash on the horizon,
a wall of rain the vertical
demarcation between light
and dark. End of a long day
that began early. A fire-filled
sermon (without brimstone)
to dispel hell, the minister’s words
a generous reminder that the divine
exists even in the darkest places.

2.
I wait for the sunset, which
promises to be spectacular.
Summer is memory, trees
wear a tinge of orange-red.
Heat dissipates as dark
draws close. Patience.
Just now, Carolina wrens
rest on the rail to discuss
the evening ahead, then fly.
Distant planes align 
to make their descent 
into nightfall, into dreams.

Patricia Joslin is a poet and essayist living in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her chapbook, I’ll Buy Flowers Again Tomorrow: Poems of Loss and Healing, was published in 2023. Poems have appeared in Kakalak, Tipton Poetry Journal, New Note Poetry, Eunoia Review, Wilderness House Literary Review and the San Antonio Review. Patricia is a former educator and now an active volunteer in the community working to address issues of food insecurity. She loves live jazz, chamber music, solo travel, bold red wine, and her four young grandsons.

Horse Clams in Winter

Darkness pours over us earlier each day
lung lichens drape over branches nearby

I scissor down roots as my sinews splay
as moss clings to the bones of rock, frost shy

sorrow's ice scrawls God's cerebral riddles
as clams relent, shells open and life scours

us clean through the fog and cloud trickles
penance in cold struggle and snow showers

The wish for warmth touches my prayers as such
in a world dying but all around the remedies

are beautiful, there's God in despair’s touch
our damned hours turn wise with loss’s entreaties.

Shaped to be alone in God’s sanctuary,
the strongest prayers live in cold’s estuary.

Mary Winslow has taught writing at colleges and universities throughout the US. Her poems have appeared in Sparks of Calliope, The Clayjar Review, The Road Not Taken, the Antigonish Review, The Avocet: Journal of Nature Poetry, and many other journals and magazines. She is the author of one chapbook, The Dungeness Crabs at Dusk, (Log Dog Press, 2017) and the editor of a full-length poetry collection, Dea Tacita, (Log Dog Press, 2017) written by poet Jeff Stier. She lives on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State.

Dew Aflame 

In the few moments
when the world’s spin
and the sun’s rays
align just so, maple
leaves shimmer and glow,  
hints of transcendence,
dew aflame on the grass,
leaves cloaked in light,
the air itself a breath
of the divine, affirming 
us all, like neighbors 
checking on each other
after a storm, smiling,
going back home
as the Earth spins
and the sun shines and 
the mundane marches on. 

after 'All The Diamonds in the World' by Bruce Cockburn

Gene Hyde is a writer, poet, and photographer who lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. He has spent most of his adult life finding inspiration, solace and strength in these ancient, verdant mountains. His writing and photography have appeared in such publications as Appalachian Journal, San Antonio Review, The Banyan Review, Raven’s Perch, Valley Voices, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, and Mountains Piled Upon Mountains: Appalachian Nature Writing in the Anthropocene.

The Dry Bones 

I have seen the raising of the dead. 
The wind called and the bones danced up, 
out of the dry and dusty earth. 
They had no form, forgot how to articulate, 
but danced and whirled as the wind 
danced and chaosed all around.

One valley over, there was no wind, 
or else the bones there knew their place. 
I heard them creaking and whispering 
beneath the dusty earth, 
hearing the wind music 
and longing after all to join the dance.

Who calls the wind? 
Who calls the step time for the dance? 
Who shouts the whispered words 
and sets the bones beating out that rhythm? 
Standing at the valley’s head, 
revelling in the chaos.

Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry, articles and stories published in various webzines and magazines and performed on BBC Radio and Edinburgh Fringe. He sometimes posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.

Photographs in the Book


You tire after
paging through Treasures of the Buddha,
while I read captions and fill in
some anecdotal information, 
such as Avalokiteshvara being a bodhisattva
with many arms so as to be able
to embrace all those who suffer,
which makes me grateful for my two arms
and how I try to support you
through your further descent
into your narrative into unknowing.
You say that you want to be noticed
for what you know too so I acquiesce
and you interpret what you see
from the photographs in the book 
to what patients are doing in their event circle,
when I say aloud, “I hope these images
nourish you and find their way into your dreams.”
After I walk you back to your room
I assist you into your bed but you resist;
you are aware our time together  
for the day is over, yet you are overtaken 
by exhaustion, nearly immediately go to sleep.
Driving home, I feel the tug of your absence.



Wally Swist’s recent essays, poems, and translations have appeared in Chicago Quarterly Review, Commonweal, Helaling Muse, Illuminations, Pensive, and Your Impossible Voice. Forthcoming titles include If You’re the Dreamer, I’m the Dream: Selected Translations from The Book of Hours, from the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, from Finishing Line Press. Kelsay Books will publish his book, Aperture, poems regarding his wife’s struggle with Alzheimer’s, in the summer of 2025. His book Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University Press, 2012) won the 2011 Crab Orchard Poetry Prize.

Prayer

After William Morris’ blown glass sculpture, Standing Stone, 1985 
(photo by Christina Hulet)

The mighty glass sculpture stands tall 
on its pedestal. Its milky white surface 
translucent, more moonstone than pearl.
I see how it radiates the museum’s spotlight 
as if lit from within. How the smooth, steady
ridges widen base to top, drawing my eyes up.

It reminds me how much I wait for You
to call me by name, to tap me on the shoulder, 
and deliver map and compass and comfort food.
Send me angels, I say, with megaphones and flares. 
Light my path, I beg, even if just with votive candles. 
But all I hear You say is: Be still. Be you.

Christina Hulet lives on Bainbridge Island, Washington with her husband and two boys. She has spent her career doing public policy and community work, including as policy advisor to a former Governor, as an elected school board member, and through her business helping organizations improve outcomes in health care, equity, and other initiatives. She has participated in several poetry workshops, including through Fishplate Poetry and Poets on the Coast.

Decommissioned

Echoes of ancient hymns 
and hushed words of worship mingle 
with dust motes that float above obsolete pews. 
Only the kneeling pads, finely stitched
with names in elaborate script,
remain as proof of a long-gone parish. 

Outside, beside the lychgate, a For Sale board 
offers permission to convert,
not to some obscure religious cult
but to flats with plans for inner walls 
that would slice from nave to apse
creating compact homes for the retired. 

One flat would boast the chancel window,
its still-vivid stained-glass panels 
depicting Jesus surrounded by disciples. 
Here nights would be filled 
with the gentle harmonies
of hymns and Gregorian chants.

Another flat would contain the small side window
that some say was propped open for lepers
who, returning from Holy Land to lazar house,
would seek reconciliation and forgiveness,
the window allowing confession at a distance. 
Here nights would shiver with the uncanny.

Today the For Sale board leans
against a lichen-pocked headstone
whose inscription is worn smooth with age.
Potential developers have viewed, 
considered and declared the site unsuitable 
without quite knowing why.

Rosalind Adam’s poetry has been published in a variety of magazines including Allegro, Green Ink, The Copperfield Review, The Pomegranate, The Ekphrastic Review, and Under the Radar. She is the author of three children’s books and has had short stories and articles published in a number of UK periodicals. In 2018 she was awarded a distinction for her MA in Creative Writing at The University of Leicester.

The Swell

Sitting in an indigo
faux leather chair, 
I am thirty thousand feet 
up in the air.
And it is too dark 	
to read a magazine,
and I am too
careful with how
I am perceived	
to press the dolphin
grey bulb hanging        
over me. Siloed
in my insecurity,
my heart is
pacing, racing
through seas of sky.

Staring out the porthole
on the starboard side
of this small plane,
I see the spark	
of every soul 
stipple the flat land
west of the Mississippi.
With mottled strokes,
each trim and slick 
their oil wicks to say:
this darkness now
is not our home,	
one flame is dim,
but not alone.

And from this lofty
point of view,
a tapestry unveils
this buoyant coup—
against the swell
of swirling night.
We are anchored
by the light.	

John McMeans is a transplant to the Texas Panhandle, where he lives with his wife and sons. He received a degree in Geography and works for Refugee Language Project (refugeelanguage.org). His writing has appeared in Amethyst Review, Texas Poetry Assignment and elsewhere. You can find him on social media @jsmcmeans.