Amethyst Review

Canvas 

Blow gently on a dandelion clock.
What is the time?	The time is now.

Seeds drift dainty on a summer breeze,
they waft across a light blue day, float meadow-ward.

Bees are feeding on a nectar canvas:

cornflowers	yarrow	harebells,
	cowslips	thistles 	cranesbill
corncockle	 nettles	daisies
	allium		anemone	borage

random splashes of colour, of scent, of grace
thrown from the brush of the Ultimate Artist.

What is the time?	The time is now.

Susan Brice lives in Belper, Derbyshire with her husband and small dog, Sunny. She has meandered through life and has learned to be glad for Light and Joy. She also understands the blessings of Darkness and Sorrow. In 2022, Susan collaborated with two friends to produce an anthology of their poems, Daughters of Thyme (dotipress.com). They are currently working on a second anthology.

First Prayer



These are the last nights of open windows and cricket sounds.
Mornings, the ground is soaked with dew.

We traced the path of Jupiter and trailing Saturn all summer long, 
and now we can’t find them, hidden behind jumbled night skies.
We work out winter’s warning to buy a new shovel,
and salt for the driveway, to get some overshoes, wondering, 

will Orion be a bright sign or a fading signal when 
it crowns the southern sky?
will it signify our blessed fortune or a final notice of decree 
from the Bureau of Fate? 
the one that says, this is to inform you that you are screwed.
Let us make our appeal.

Imitation birdsong is the most ancient prayer, they say, the source 
of human speech. Tamil Brahmins have chanted it for ten thousand years.

I have mantras, too, as old as the oldest ancientness. 
I stand in the yard listening.
I watch the breeze climb the treetops.
I prepare to pull the boat down to the shore.

To the deep we go, to petition, atone, face the facts,
to meet what will come with cheer, if warranted, 
with resolve if required.
To tip my keel on the rolling sea —

the last open window, the last cricket song,
the first prayer of the soul’s new year.


September 2019/ Elul 5779

Jonathan Cohen lives on the Connecticut shore of Long Island Sound with his wife, daughters, and a hound dog. He hails from Buffalo, New York, which informs his writing and where he has deep roots. He studied history and philosophy at Kenyon College and now studies poetry with Jon Davis. 

On the Line

I cast again into
                             the fog
hoping the lure attractive
wondering if my wrist
                                        is loose enough
to maintain proper tension
spray leaping off the line
                                             in all directions.

What is the catch?

The proverbial old boot
but what other kinds
                                     of clothing,
the largest fish ever caught
                                               in these parts
one I don’t have to toss back,
or a wish somewhere out there
                                                      in the deep.

Ray Greenblatt is an editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and teaches a ‘Joy of Poetry’ course at Temple University. He has written book reviews for the Dylan Thomas Society, John Updike Society, and Joseph Conrad Today. His latest book of poetry is From an Old Hotel on the Irish Coast (Parnils Media, 2023).

Quiet Day at the Cathedral

I’ve lost count – overhead, at least a hundred 
cackling gulls are struggling for height.
Chaotic shadows flap across the cloister.

Waiting for some unregarded bird 
to centre on a thermal core and climb,
I shut out thought. I listen to the fountain.

A gust blows through and I look up again.
Above the nave at noon a seagull soars.
The rising air sustains its graceful turn –

and then another – and then another –

 

Helen Evans facilitates Inner Room, a pioneer lay ministry that creates space for people to be creative, and is piloting a new project, Poems for the Path Ahead. Her debut pamphlet, Only by Flying, was published by HappenStance Press. Her poems have appeared in The Rialto, The North, Magma, Wild Court, The Friday Poem and Ink, Sweat & Tears. One was a joint winner of the Manchester Cathedral 600 Poetry Competition. She has a master’s degree with distinction in Creative Writing from the University of St Andrews. www.helenevans.co.uk

The Rabbit Near the Driveway



If I had not turned my head,
I would not have seen you
clothed in the shade of twilight.
Soon night will escort you
beneath its coat unto the safety
of where you will burrow in sleep.
For now you have strayed
from home as you nuzzle grass,
a pine needle, a piece of bark.
We look at each other,
we do not move from each other’s sight.
Trust rests on the stillness of time
we have strung between us
for a moment.

Janet Krauss, who has two books of poetry published, Borrowed Scenery, Yuganta Press, and Through the Trees of Autumn, Spartina Press, has recently retired from teaching English at Fairfield University. Her mission is to help and guide Bridgeport’s  young children through her teaching creative writing, leading book clubs and reading to and engaging a kindergarten class. As a poet, she co-directs the poetry program of the Black Rock Art Guild.

Susan Michele Coronel lives in New York City. Her poems appear in publications including Spillway 29, Gyroscope Review,  Redivider, and Anti-Heroin Chic. This year Susan won the First Poem Contest sponsored by the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. In 2021 one of her poems was runner-up for the Beacon Street Poetry Prize, and another was a finalist in the Millennium Writing Awards. She has received two Pushcart nominations. Her first full-length poetry manuscript was a finalist for Harbor Editions’ 2021 Laureate Prize. 

Decibels of Praise

i. Now

The chorus of praise sung 
by creation drowns out ours— 
the white-throated sparrow
spilling its golden notes
on winter days; spring peepers
and katydids in their season.

In choosing to be human, 
we yielded to sorrows that pierce
through hearts to joy. We chose
the flinty grace of arrows,
the grinding of the hours
that sharpens the callow young.

And when we want to cry
we sing a lullaby. 


ii. Later

The first to rise will sing, Hallelujah!
and shake creation.
The sleeping will cry, What’s that brouhaha?
while Christ calls out, My dears, I know you! 
Such will be the exultation
when the first to rise sing, Hallelujah!
and shake creation. 


iii. At Last

Thorny bougainvillea,
cells that move by cilia, 

lichen and giraffe,
mother frog and bull calf,

the pampered and abused, 
well-loved and ill-used

will see in their stories
the makings of glory

and join their sweet words
in praise of the Lord.

J.S. Absher’s second full-length book of poetry, Skating Rough Ground, was published in 2022 by Kelsay Press. His first full-length book, Mouth Work (St. Andrews University Press) won the 2015 Lena Shull Book Contest from the NC Poetry Society. His poems have recently been published or accepted by the NC Literary Review, Triggerfish Review, and Tar River Review. His poems have been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize. He lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, with his wife Patti. His webpage is js-absher-poetry.com. 

On Fire								
	a story from the Fioretti				

Saint Clare insisted 						
on a meal with him.  She stared 
beyond him, fingered

her coarse sleeve and asked
again – would not be denied
that bread.  When at last

he heard her longing,
he planned, for her delight,
a lunch al fresco

beside her heart’s home:
Saint Mary of the Angels –
where she had been shorn.

That day, Clare hastened 
beyond San Damiano’s walls
to sit in sunshine

on the bare ground
where Francis served the first dish.
They started talking.

And their talk was sweet –
a cordial so inspiriting
for two fervent souls

that from far away
people saw the church on fire.
With buckets and cries –

sure the church and woods
and convent were all destroyed –
crowds burst through the gate

to quench flames but found
only two friends picnicking
with Love, their refiner. 

Mia Schilling Grogan is an Associate Professor of English at Chestnut Hill College in Philadelphia.  She is a medievalist, who publishes in the areas of hagiography and women’s spiritual writing. Her poems have appeared in America, Presence, First Things, The Windhover, and Ekstasis among other journals.  

Raphael


Heal, such a fragile sound, like a long
Exhalation, yearn audible to myself as sigh - 
Arrival of the day of my return to balance,
Leaving worry and pain relievers behind.

I’ve been asking for the restorative touch.
Dip your hand in my mind’s pool and stir
Energy. I immerse in water, Siloam wherein I  
Abandon maladies. I envision my own relief

Harmonizing from words, your staff
Evolving from my texts, scepter shaped from
Allusions. Let me breathe in my return to
Lightsome lift. Let me know good health again.

Infuse, fiber my being with insights. I want to 
Delight with no said words, how quietly
Extraordinary a morning of weeds - lighter, light -
Aromas of salted fish, garlic rice, pineapple juice.

How rejuvenating the smell of sweat, 
Extraordinary as I walk along. My senses
Aspire for prescription, sensuality filtering
Love like ground coffee. I shall taste it again,

In the room where wonder orders words,
Drawing from memory. Once again,   
Elevation holds. I invoke your name,
Archangel. Inspire me into your places of

Healing, where the pot breaks for roots to
Enter new space, where a door opens
And the pail overflows. Take me to where
Living in peace and ease is modeled 

Instead, words reflecting what the body
Does to heal itself. Flesh and bones are
Elm to blood. It needs air cleaned of greed,
Atmosphere for a kaleidoscope of wings to

Hear pollen and draw near. Hear nectar and be
Eager. The scenic system to circulation. Clean  
Air opens petals - for the style to be seen,
Lifting up as the ovary’s extension, flower

In sunlight showing the altered perspective.
Dream me a quiet meeting of minds, where an
Earring draws to the smile. Cupid sends his
Arrow and, wow, first sight sends ripples 

Heartward. I long to close my hand on another,
Earthen as I am. Remember again the face I 
Adore. I’ve forgotten the gentleness of
Love, the long sigh turned into contentment.

I ask that my touch echo and heal, past
Detritus of the mind and close the wound,
Effluvia of conscience dispersed, bouquets of
Air wafting, wine of forgiveness. Let me

Heed your call to blueprint with phrases,
Exercise into the best body of words, excise
Aging. Hope is my fruit, faith my vegetable,
Light a verb, noun or an adjective -

Illuminating, truth or weightless. Teach me to
Decompress into bare essentials, give away
Everything I don’t need, so I could transcend
And image my return to wellness, which
Lifts, this time, from my body to my mind.  
 

Jonel Abellanosa resides in Cebu City, the Philippines. He writes poetry and fiction. He considers the sacred an important element of his personal poetics. He advocates animal rights and living comforts. He has three beloved dogs.

Mirth Tons

Thomas Merton and I are having a small quarrel.

That’s not entirely fair. My Thomas lives in the great crescendo beyond quarrels, and when he prays for me, his smile is as warm as peace.

But my Thomas was once a tight knot, and I tangle with him across time and space.

My Thomas is not my Thomas alone, of course. Many others feel his arm linked in theirs, his soft steps crunching leaves beside them. He is one of those writers who feels like home, precisely because he never seems fully at home. 

That makes my Thomas a bit of a mood ring, which would amuse him immensely. The Vatican I persnicketies, the Buddhiversalist kaleidoscopes, my angriest atheist colleague, and the man who mops the Wawa — they all claim my Thomas as their friend. None of them are wrong.

But when his youth was a fist, my Thomas would have called them all wrong.

In the brisk certainty of first faith, my Thomas was November wind. His words gasp exasperated in this era, pedantic and squeezing. 

How do the self-indulgent not see what he sees, a pitiful shoreline of Jabba the Hutts making Jesus weep? How could their arms be so limp, their hands so grasping, their fidelity prone to brown-outs when the Power was present?

This is where I’m meeting my Thomas right now, in his early writings. Even though I know how he later unfurled, bewildered with wonder and large with love, I wriggle when he tells me I am flabby and blind. 

I wriggle because I see the wraith of myself at the same age. 

I knew who was right and who was wrong, and I feared the fat of gentleness. Far better to err on the lean side, the pristine side. 

This took different hues for me than for my Thomas — where he was crisply Catholic with stern centuries behind him, I was an undercooked evangelical, counting among my favorite theologians Larry the Cucumber and Kirk Cameron, spurning mood rings and desktop Buddhas as nefarious New Age devilry.

I quarrel with my Thomas when he speaks in razors, because when we walk together, I realize we have matching, self-inflicted wounds. 

But my Thomas loved the Wounded One enough to keep walking. 

As they walked into the night together, my Thomas was taken by surprise. The people of peace came in colors outside any codex. Distant hymns did not align with fixed hours. What was asked and what was given took each other’s hands, and grace had the stronger grip.

And when my Thomas unclenched his fist, seeds of joy blew in a thousand directions.

Love overtook my Thomas, love that left him with a limp and a laugh. He famously fell into ecstasy on an ordinary street corner, engulfed in God’s infatuation for the selfish, threadbare, gasping strangers scrambling past. They were so beautiful, he trembled. His open hands stretched to show them what he knew: “There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”

But he did, my Thomas. For the rest of his life, he did, and he does, and he will, until every wound is healed and the only knots are cords of love. 

Like all his moody, muddled friends, I have made Thomas Merton my own Thomas, when he is of course God’s Thomas. In the post-rigid recovery of my wildflower-child faith, I have probably painted him more technicolor than he was, a huggable universalist Jesus freak who wants me to prioritize self-care whilst feeding the hungry.

But my Thomas, cresting the great crescendo, can forgive me. 

My Thomas, who found the grace to go without knowing, goes with every mixed-up mystic with courage to quarrel. We are all so right and so wrong, street-corner urchins saved by grace. We hurt ourselves and each other. We get our fists pried open and filled with bread. Jesus bandages our wounds before the light turns red.

We all belong to God.

We shine like the sun.

Peace be with you, my Thomas, my brother, my friend.

Story is the soul of Angela Townsend’s calling. As Development Director at Tabby’s Place: a Cat Sanctuary, she has the privilege of bearing witness to mercy for all beings. This was not the vocation Angela expected when she got her Master of Divinity from Princeton Theological Seminary, but love is a wry author of lives. Angela also has a Bachelor of Arts in Anthropology from Vassar College. She has had Type 1 diabetes for 32 years and lives in Bucks County, PA with two shaggy comets disguised as cats.