Amethyst Review

In his last days, he leaked light


	Barbara Brown Taylor 
in her eulogy for the Rt. Rev. Bennett J. Sims


I want it said of me, in my old age, that I leak light.
That with every wrinkle, I grow brighter; with every ache,
the dandelion becomes my guide. 

I’m not talking about leaks that arrive unwelcomed. A shower
that sputters, then settles into syncopated plops. Headlines
that risk national security. Heart valves that spill with each pump. 

Last year, a busted pipe undetected for hours flooded a friend’s home
before setting off alarms. Water can be like that.

But today I’m talking about light. How it flames from a hearth, glistens
from melting snow. How when there’s so much shine in a body
toward the end of life, it gilds everything in its flow.

Karen Luke Jackson, winner of the Rash Poetry Award and the Sidney Lanier Poetry Contest, draws upon family lore, contemplative practices, and nature for inspiration. Her poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, EcoTheo Review, Susurrus, Salvation South, and Friends Journal, among others. Karen has also authored three poetry collections: If You Choose To Come, paying homage to the healing beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains; The View Ever Changing, exploring the lifelong pull of homeplace and family ties; and GRIT, chronicling her sister’s adventures as an award-winning clown. Karen is a facilitator with the Center for Courage & Renewal. She lives in a cottage on a goat pasture in western North Carolina where she companions people on their spiritual journeys. karenlukejackson.com

Brief Communion

The breathtaking heron floats down
on a sepia evening to land
on the seawall. His blue sails span six feet.

Entranced by the intimate encounter, 
by his beauty and grace,
the stick legs supporting his hull,
I forget to breathe.

He toes the seawall, takes his stance.
I scan the slash of dark feathers
above his intense yellow eye,
inspect the curves of his question mark neck.

For a brief moment 
we trust the space between us,
share the silence, soft light, and warm breeze. 
The wind ruffles his fringe, tousles my hair.
Then he presses off for the ochre sky,
as quickly as he appeared.

I watch his yacht cruise across the glass surface,
inches above bay waters,
dragging his oars behind.

He grows smaller and smaller until he disappears
and I’m struck with sadness.

I sit alone until dark like a child 
forgotten after school,
believing he’ll round the bend 
and come back for me any minute.

Lori Zavada writes poetry and prose that reveals a deep respect for nature and the human condition. Steeped in insight and imagery, her poems can be found in Of Poets and Poetry, Operelle Poetry Collection, Emerald Coast Review, WayWords,Nobis II, and her chapbook First Flight. Lori lives in Northwest Florida in a community of talented supportive writers, who work together to achieve their writing goals. 

Kitetails

strands of my soul are rising
to a place where they converge
now endless sky seems the only home
for my rising soul, my rising soul

called by the heavens as if by
notes plucked on a piano
eager to go as every earthly tie
becomes memory

and I want them back
chasing their colors like kitetails
grasping for garish ribbons
already riding the ever-rising breeze

Casey Mills writes poems early in the morning while his daughters are still sleeping. His poetry was recently published in Ekstasis.

The Walk Home from the Lake Shore

The edge of the lake laps against the stony shore,
an ever-moving, evolving environment.

The ebb and flow, water slapping
rocks, the whir of wind coming from behind

pushes me toward oblivion –
echoing 
an endless call from the lake's depths.

It is here, on the lake shore,
an edge that is more than 
water 

meeting rock—where all that is 
known 
and comforting—feels like

home. I turn to leave, knowing
my dwelling beckons:

Children to play with, dinner to cook.
Laundry and dishes to do, and do, and do.

The uphill walk is laborious –
painful – a narrow passage.

I yearn for rebirth; 
yet, long for the familiar 
lake shore – its
ever-changing bluffs of 

deliberation.

Jodi Schott lives near Lake Ontario in Rochester, New York. Her most recent poems are published in her chapbook, Sinking in the Sky Water. She is Director of Mission & Ministry at The Aquinas Institute of Rochester, where she has the privilege to guide students and faculty into a deeper relationship with God. She enjoys spending time with her husband, three children, and dog.

The Garden in April

                             Nature shows that survival is a practice

                                               Wintering by Katherine May


This spring: fits and starts. The joy of the first field 
of crocus, white candytuft on dried lawn glows 
like a beacon. A hint of green, a smatter of tiny buds. 
Too early, I lament. Like a merry-go-round coming back 
to the brass ring: a reset—one night of cold wind, 
freezing rain and nature cycles back. Pears, magnolias 
go brown. Winter triumphant again. But new growth, 
unstoppable. Warm sun and cool nights toughen. 

I watch the garden’s teaching as I move through surgery 
and slow recovery. Now Japanese maple’s red leaves form 
a scrim pattern in front of the weeping cherry, still bright 
with blossoms. Six days past surgery I wake to lazy 
snowflakes drifting earthward. Another reset. 
The garden’s promise spurs me on.

Ginger Graziano, originally from New York City, is a author, painter and graphic designer living in Asheville, North Carolina where she receives inspiration from the mountain beauty. Her poems have been published in The American Journal of Poetry, Kakalak, Sky Island Journal, The Great Smokies Review, among others. Her memoir, See, There He Is, was published in 2015. http://www.gingergraziano.com/writing.

Girl Picks Berries

Up by the old camp I pick
at the hedge. Darter by me on spike rush.

The quiet is loud, and stillness is starfull - a circus.
The tips of my fingers hold worlds

up in sky. When I have enough I go
through the gap and lift

the sheet on slow worm,
sat still and river-wound there. I touch her

in my ownliness. Darter there.
Coming back down I feel my dress

swing at my hips. I cut through the grave garden
shutting the gate after me, and I leave one berry

on Tommy Right-times bed, then go
through the lych-gate and return

to the village and the sun-sounds my smile
makes, on the meeting with all of theirs there.

Martin Towers is a support worker in Aberystwyth, Wales. Samples of his spoken word poetry are used in music by the producer Meanderman. Search: ‘Meanderman (feat. Jimmy Badger)’

Toward the Sun

As we grow older
our bodies as well as minds
seem to  turn toward the sun;
even the sunflowers
at dawn yearn upward,
we hear their petals
whisk by the shutters;
curling up a trellis
morning glories flick
off the early dew
to crane a look at the sky;
what we all hope for
--I like to think—is
the streaking of a comet
or the twinkling of a star
that should not be there.



Ray Greenblatt is an editor on the Schuylkill Valley Journal and teaches a “Joy of Poetry" course at Temple University-OLLI. His newest book of poetry is From an Old Hotel on the Irish Coast (Parnilis Media, 2023).

Looking Forward to My Sixties

Some say there is no reason constellations wheel
across the sky, there is only space and time and smallness.
But smallness can contain galaxies of meaning.

One person spends their life searching for answers while another
stares out at the pond. Herons and frogs mostly worry
about each other. What to eat. How not to be eaten.

The frog sings through summer darkness while the heron
stands long hours in the light. Patience is a virtue
woven on the loom of a long life. Youth is too restless

to master the details of thread over thread to the end.
David, when he grew tired of bullying, picked up a stone
that had lain in the desert for a thousand years.

How strange to find that whatever we need was provided
before our birth. A shorter road ahead brings a life into focus.
I kneel in the garden, watching ants march in a line,

less uniform than you might think. Their tiny feet
shuffle past each other. Some with empty mandibles,
some carrying ten times their own weight.

Alfred Fournier is an entomologist, writer and community volunteer in Phoenix, Arizona. He runs poetry workshops for Connect and Heal, a local nonprofit. His poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, Cagibi, The Sunlight Press, Gyroscope Review, Ponder Review and elsewhere. His first collection, A Summons on the Wind (2023) is available from Kelsay Books or on Amazon.com. Web: alfredfournier.com. X: @AlfredFournier4.

Murmurations of Becoming More Human

We watch the spectacle of horror, 
view the theater of rubble,
sense the slipping of humanity.
Violence begets more violence.
Grief is palpable, helplessness, insurmountable.

Life is bound to rules of loving. 
If you don’t believe, watch the synchronized movement of 
a school of fish, a swarm of  bees, the murmuration of starlings, 
never colliding, just moving as one large being. 
There is no single leader, no outsider,   
just a requirement to watch out for your neighbor.

One small act of kindness makes a difference;
an invitation to attract another starling to the group,
swooping and swirling, rising.
Wings transform to His hands and feet, 
becoming more fully human. 

Angela Hoffman lives in Wisconsin. With her retirement from teaching and the pandemic coinciding, she took to writing poetry. Her poetry has been widely published. Angela’s collections include Resurrection Lily 2022, Olly Olly Oxen Free 2023, and Hold the Contraries, forthcoming 2024 (Kelsay Books). 

The Joy of Floating

I’m floating in Little Black Creek waters, 
spread eagle in the sun.
Set adrift, chest and cheeks burning red. 
Ripples reflecting sunlight in geometric shapes, 
glittering turquoise diamonds and triangles.

Belly lifting toward surface,
water filling in that empty space
in the hollow of my back.
Pushing me up toward the 
circling dragonfly with a neon blue tail 
and silver-veined wings, 
that contemplates landing on my stomach,
covered in hot pink and black burn-out roses.
The wind stirs the late summer tree line, 
like a lazy bobcat dragging its paws through the 
gold, rust, and burnt orange jewel-toned leaves, 
pine needles and prickly sweet gum balls.

Momentarily still, the gentle current 
serpentines around my curves,
as if navigating an outcrop of rocks.

I’ve gone too far, 
floated out beyond the red ball buoys.
Lacey grass from the sandy bottom reaches upward,
wrapping around my ankles, threatening to
trap me once again in the thermocline middle,
where I’ve trod for so many years.

Nothing can stop my desire to glide along the glassy surface,
stay afloat in the giant blue-green levied bowl,
drift away, and moor in the unknown, 
underneath a crush of early evening stars.

F.D. Jackson lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. She writes about loss/grief and the restorative and transformative power of nature. Her work has appeared in FERAL, Book of Matches, Cosmic Daffodil, and Poetry Breakfast. She has work forthcoming in Green Ink Poetry, San Antonio Review, and Wild Roof Journal.