joyful!
"Make A joyful! Noise..."
--Gwendolyn Brooks
Poetry Archives 2009
December
Dark Rain Drops
by
Martin Jackson
Dark rain drops
rain down on me
so long, don't think it will stop
So hard I couldn't see
Dark rain drops
weight down on me
so wrong but it doesn't stop
I looked and I could see
The light
crackling across the sky
so bright
but no need to shield my eyes
for in the light I could see
For I was free
in the glory of the sun
placed high in heavens
For I was free
in the glory of the Son
placed high and heavenly
While He Is Knitting You Together
by
Catherine Zickgraf
All this time
you were in God’s mind.
He knew you were coming,
but I didn’t.
And He knew my heart
longed for a you.
And here you are,
so busy growing.
Your little heart
and its secret pumping
still has so much
work to do.
You are folded in your mother,
hidden inside her,
as God has carried me
throughout my life.
What I want for you,
my precious blessing,
is that you never doubt
just why God made you.
I am impatient,
I so want to see you.
But I will stay busy too.
I’m praying that you
may come to know
the God who has always
known and loved you.
(Previously published by Perpetual Magazine)
Affirmations
by
Sarah Paige Berling
My love
My life
My heart of hearts
I love I love you so.
And if thou doubts
And if thou dreams
That ever I would go
Then stay the hand that begs and pleads
And keep the kisses here
For fear, my dear, and fear, my love
Will never disappear.
So come to me then
My life
My love
And whisper in my ears:
"I love you now
"I loved you then
And forever will never take you again.\"
And I will look you in the eyes and
Tell it true as true
"I loved you from morning\'s dew
"I loved you since before I knew
"I loved you from my heart\'s first breath
"And I will love you til the end.\"
And
You will stare and
I will stare and
Together, in silence, know
That this bond we've made
This bond we've shared
Will strengthen and live and grow
For such bonds never fail
They simply grow on
Into
Infinity...
The Author’s Quill
by
Damien Miller
The earth befalls the birth of time
Our Author writes, His work sublime
Our hands from clay, He took to mold
Now we are art, more prized than gold
The man and woman bound in glee
Till they stumbled upon a tree
Both in shame, a price they paid
The Author’s quill, they had betrayed
A cunning tongue left two deceived
The garden shut, the sinners leaved
The serpent’s curse, he could not take
His fate is clear, the fiery lake
Now tomes of faith proclaim a vision
Skies of blood lie painted crimson
From down he came, the prince of air
Fling your saber, if you dare
The good have come, the skies are clear
The heavens gleam, now seal your fear
A mane that glows, the silver stallion
Shine wings of light, the divine battalion
Atop a hill, the rivals clash
Their swords are stained upon each slash
The swindler’s lost, he cannot mend
The righteous have triumphed, this marks the end
Christmas Carolers
by
Deborah E. Richard
The widow sits by her fireplace
Tired eyes beginning to close
With only an open book for comfort
As suddenly, a chorus arose!
She peers through the white lace curtains
There, bundled in mittens and coats
She beholds a group of small children
Rending the air with angelic notes.
Instantly, it all came together
As a puzzle, perfectly fit
The message of the Christmas story
In her heart, this night was remit.
Break The Dark Lens
by
Barb Caffrey
"You there, in the corner!" I call out.
"Yes, you.
"Break the dark lens!"
"I don't understand," stammers the man in the corner.
"I don't see any 'dark lens,' and have no idea how to break it."
"There's a pall over your life," I say.
"Everything, shrouded in pain, misery and death.
"That dark lens must go."
"I still don't get it," the man says. A well-dressed woman has come up to reinforce him.
"This is life." He shrugs. "You want me to be hypocritical, not to talk about what I see every day?"
"No," I tell him.
"Don't be a hypocrite.
Do break that dark lens."
"I am doing my best." The man sniffs, and takes the woman's arm.
"If you don't like it, that's your problem." He walks off; she grins back at me with canine teeth.
I call after him, "Sir, please!
"This is your last chance.
"Break that dark lens, before it breaks you!"
But there is no reply.
Then the dark lens transferred its attentions to me,
and I have never been free of it, since.
It continues to shadow me,
but I cannot break it alone.
"Can you help me?" I ask the next person as he rushes by.
"No time now, sorry," he says, not really seeing me.
And the next: "Not today, honey.
"Maybe tomorrow we can get rid of that nasty thing."
See, when they look me, they see the dark lens;
they see how damaging it is,
they see how destructive.
But they cannot see it in their own selves.
I believe
that we were put here in order to see this dark lens for what it is,
and get past it,
and break it for others -- hoping others will break it for us in turn.
Take it from one who knows:
'Ware of the dark lens in your life, and
break it whenever you can, before it's too late!
Two From Helen Warner
Awakening
Make peace with your troubled memories.
Give them a spring kiss and send them away
Till winter’s darkness returns them
To call upon the doorstep of your midnight.
Let the mourning veil fall from your dim eyes
And be shaken from the sulking hours
Spent brooding through a maze of dreams-
A cobweb’s tangle of wasted wishes and regrets.
No longer inhabit those pale sky thoughts,
Fling to the wind the what-ifs and why’s.
Open the shuttered doors and heavy draped windows
And let the spring bathe you in its golden mercies.
Breathe in the speckled visions, grand possibilities.
Songs forgotten will burst from your lips
As you walk, newborn, through
Tender young fields of soft green grass.
Then grasp greedily at this new day
To declare-
“I laugh, I breathe, I love…
I LIVE!”
Elegy of a Dream
Offer up thy faded vision,
The image took a final blow.
Life's vital flame insipid now,
Cannot regain its vibrant glow.
Grasp no more to futile fate.
Keep whispered vespers hovering low.
Summon one last breath defiant,
For all the trials that time bestowed.
Gather only what is given;
The secret hides inside this day.
Smaller things give vast endurance.
Inside of these a fortress stays.
Hold near the warmth of tenderness
When grey colorless dolor falls.
Palest sorrow cannot consume,
What is built with eternal walls.
ROOM WITH A VIEW II
(A Ghazal at Lake Ohrid, Macedonia)*
by
Bradley R. Strahan
After the bath God lifts his curtain
from this mist glazed mirror.
Mountains like green-robed monks
kneel before God's clouded mirror.
An arbor, an iron rail; a dove
brings his message down from somewhere.
Far below, like red water-striders
kayaks paddle-leg across the water.
A Balkan song, a stutter of red-tiled roofs
flows down to the edge of water.
And you old buzzard, perched on a green verge
what would you want of gods and mirrors.
November
Three From Carol Lynn Grellas
Without Reason
Because in the midst of a storm
a tree can be halved by lightning
and spare one survivor between Heaven
and home, and because water
can flow from the tub, seep though
a floor of another man’s ceiling
who’s thankful for rain when his
dwelling is parched-- and because
one's speech is occasionally slurred from
the onset of illness rather than gin,
proven by doctors in search of a cure--
and because a woman will die
in childbirth before the infant is placed
on her belly, for the joy of life
and being a mother. Because of this
in the name of gratitude
I’ll write you a poem, imagine you
reading my hodgepodge of lines
with a need for hope and hands
raised high, for the craving of fingers
to wrap around fingers, connecting
souls to a manmade steeple. Because
of this, I’ll write you a poem and a poem
and a poem, until we know all that we
don’t; until we embrace all that we
aren’t, until we're in awe of ourselves
and the universe, forever united
within these words.
Dear Child,
They say you are unwell;
a villain lives inside your perfect cell
the godly body that was given you
and we must be the victors
of this battle named for two −
So carefully
I’ll plan your bubbled-room
a germ-free life that both of us will share
and now we’ll christen you
with terms though unaware
of what this outcome yet will be,
we can’t conceive
as if catastrophe is not a word,
I won’t allow it, never heard.
We do not believe.
But what to make of all this hubbub,
racket, clatter, perfect beings
are never guaranteed, no matter.
I will blow the fluff off dandelions,
anoint your cradle with the scented oils,
lick the rainbows from your windowsills
fight disease and slay gargoyles
until I swallow every color
while you’re ill because some hope
might be linger in a tint of indigo, be still.
You needn’t worry for the outcome,
what will remain, for you my flawless prince
forever just the same. I’ll only see perfection
ever entering your door. I am not blinded
by this darkened path, with every step,
I’ll love you even more.
Enchanted Garden
Once I owned a house down by the sea
where grew an ornamental cherry tree
and climbing blossoms on the vine laced
around the trellis frame. Divine, how tuberose
would weave its way between the slats
where June-bugs fed on leafy greens and arbors
held each finches nest while birds ate worms
instinctively from mother’s beaks
like children nursing from the breast.
Once I owned a house down by the sea,
where shells would breathe my name on tranquil
days as dolphins sliced through waves
in ocean swells propelling movement
like an aircrafts tail while boats would sail
and I would kneel then sink in clover-grass
where daisies poked a stem or two right
through the patch that held my soul,
but oh, that house had grown a garden lush
as paradise, with flora brushed in shades
of every hue, and no one knew how much
I loved that house down by the sea
once owned by someone else, her cherry tree
still tended every day, with flowers
groomed, the perfect care, her hidden finger’s
growing petals everywhere, and I could feel
her touching all the sepals with her skin
that landscaped beauty from within the fence
of picket white that lined the place where grew
a tree and even though the years had lost her
somewhere else in time, that house remembered
how her hands had sculpted life into its heart,
the way a lover knows her lover’s clutch
the way an artist only lives for art.
Carol Lynn Grellas, Author
Earth and Sea
by
Matthew Sholler
You and I are all earth and sea,
one lush, one deep,
one blue, one green,
elemental opposites with perfect properties
conceived together before Memory.
Forever under a wide sky
we remember the covenant,
our rendezvous along the shifting shore.
At dusk the moon draws close to us, lonely,
turning inland my cobalt tide
and bathing you in lilac light
as the contours of your coast descend to my restless edge.
Somewhere beyond my horizon, North African ports
hang salt and baharat spice on the wind,
breath that wafts through your russet grasses,
conjuring embers in autumn.
I behold the ripe wholeness of you, olive and overflowing,
dark soil, moist and infused with life-giving alchemy.
You guard the wisdom of generations on a buried tablet
and a healer’s basin rests on your rounded hip.
Your bedrock slopes up gently beneath me, always.
“Return to me,” you whisper
and the mercuries of our boundary are undone.
I inhale your verdant name,
and the surf draws on the First Knowing
of plant and animal that swims deep within me.
Coaxed by the smooth rub of your sand bar,
the root-flow channels thick from my center
and I surge to the surface, warm and phosphorescent.
Your shoreline stretches white and wide
before my rolling shoulders,
and you lie back as I hiss over your periphery,
licking the pebbles and nuzzling the great dunes,
heartsick for your refuge and my oblivion.
I spread out over your open terrain,
the finer grains swelling, the denser clay giving way
as I filter down into your particles.
I run up and into your cliff caves,
cascading down and dizzy into you,
your steamy nitrates filling my nostrils.
Your clear rivers now reversed and loamy,
you well up beneath my flood
and I gaze into your eyes,
jade teardrops blurry and shimmering.
You are my true North
and all things consign me to a death and rebirth,
blowing me back out to sea
from your bare peaks
in silver bursts of vapor.
At dawn what remains of me begins to recede,
leaving your mossy stones damp and exhaling deep,
your landscape glowing copper in early sunlight.
“Return to me,” I whisper,
clinging to you with failing fingers.
Your muddy sediments scurry after me into the foam
and I cradle them to me,
dropping through darkness to the ocean’s bed
where currents and dreams sway to your memory
in three-quarter time.
Three From Joanne M Uppendahl
Spent Petals
Sere grass rustles, sunflowers nod, bloomed-out flowers
cast spent petals when August's sun blasts, rendering me
succumbed, no longer aching with impalpable promises,
I drink the burgundy wine of ripened seasons, enough
for my soul's provision. Nights are shorter, but chill.
Crickets shrill, starlight becomes more visible as clouds recede
in crisp arum-laden air. August does not push to celebrate,
anticipate, accelerate; it waits as fulsome sun flavors all.
Nights recall fall's early aroma. Don't forget, August entreats,
your summers are enclosed by me and in me rest, lifted by
my gaze--my haze of unextinguished wildfires. Nodding
golden rod tassels must wait till morning for tossing seeds.
Finally the grass stops all pretense of green. Trees gently hint
of autumn blaze. Moon sets her beams on owls in arid branches.
Perseids are beckoning banners as I yearly path my way to sea,
unearthing roots to find what portents reveal below star-streaked dark.
In His Absence
I search for
the sliver of light no longer visible
under his door at night,
puzzle over his abandoned electrical projects--
the Tesla coil, unwound, like a coppery
umbilical cord.
Imagine
him drifting in the darkness of space
in unconscious repose,
perhaps to Jupiter's moons;
has he awakened on Ganymede?
Study a photo of him leaning 
against a thick fir tree,
artfully carved with initials,
his blue backpack hangs
to the ground. Was he like a star
that flares and fades, but can
still be seen across vast space?
Imagine
him drifting in the darkness of space
in unconscious repose,
perhaps to Jupiter's moons;
has he awakened on Ganymede?
I wonder if the life
I've lived in his absence
is a chimera, a phantasmagoria
meant to evaporate in a burst
of radiant light.
An Oak Tree Speaks Her Mind
From a bluff, I watch the pulsing Sea rise
and rush to meet the supplicating sand,
and take to task thin sticks of driftwood,
affecting poise in spite of her passion.
She mouths escaping timbers, swirling
fast in frantic turning, end over end,
spinning counter-clockwise.
Sea pointedly sighs, spitting mostly briarwood,
"Forget stars for now; drink this misted morning
from my breasts, offering cool, foamed brine.
"I never had a mood, breathes Sea,
who answers only to the Moon, pulling
her face closer to mine. She whispers,
"It's all a part of grand design."
What posture shall be mine? Shall I lean like Pine,
bent-twig elbows, spine bowing slantwise, endlessly
tuning, sonorous winds puffing on my bark? Or emulate
Spruce's angled limbs, hanging like suspended dancers
in fractured lines. What brittle sisters, happy martyrs
to wind\'s pull and tug! None of these shams for me!
I've observed her closely, my elemental teacher:
Sea's the primal force, the why of blues and greens;
the fierce, fair source who loves the sky, wind and
land. Feigning nothing, she gathers life in her swells,
releasing at her will, no thought of pleasing! Simply
being is her great scheme. I will be on Earth, the same.
Three From Brian Lowry
In Her Time
Like river ripples lapping
a turbulent earth,
she rocks her restless child.
Soulfully as the stream christens the shore,
she whispers, “Slumber, my darling,
thy mother is near.”
A mother’s source rustles her own heart.
The Holy sings over her sotto voce.
Affectionately her lips offer worship
and quiets the child.
Soil and Seed
I understand,
as best I can,
faith of a seed.
But, had I
the faith of soil,
I’d be content
to perish
for seed.
I’d settle
in the thought
that decay
holds trust.
Holy Love
In spite of reasonable
questions and doubts, hope
weaves through divisions.
Not some simple, contrived superficial wishing,
but a well of faith. It may be dark
and dank, but unseen there is a strength
wherein deep calls unto deep
to say that we are loved beyond the mere
human undertaking of explanation.
Morning Time
by
Cynthia Whiteford
I peek out from under the covers.
The rising sun streams through the windows
bringing with it the promise of a new day.
I am inexorably drawn to it.
I open the back door and stand there.
Watching as the sky fills
with muted rainbows of color.
I am filled with awe at the beauty of it.
I open the jalousie window.
Listen to the singsong voices
of the birds in the trees.
I am filled with joy at the sound of it.
I take a deep breath.
The scents of dew and earth
mingle with someone’s breakfast cooking.
I am filled with tranquility at the smell of it.
I slowly sip.
Wisps of freshly-brewed coffee
stream up from the cup.
I am filled with comfort at the taste of it.
I pause.
The stir of a gentle breeze
caresses my skin.
I am filled with wonder at the touch of it.
A new day to revel in just being alive
to see, hear, smell, taste, and feel
all that this life has to offer;
to appreciate living to its fullest.
Awakened
by
Vera J. Wu
Awakened
by truth overcoming sinister, dark voices
inside my head
recreated by hands
forms life out of nothing
altered by love
creates life out of cavernous decay
You offer refuge from my accusers--
rocks drift softly to the earth
and disappear
You cradle my face in your hands
my heart is overwhelmed.
Pulled from your embrace
jealous, sinewy hands
burn my heart upon embers of remembrance
beauty vanishes
shame, guilt, condemnation appear
memories twisted, pain reborn
lies snake through regenerated life
choking, burning, destroying breath
snuffing out the light
lying facedown in a pit
suffocated by brooding, shadowy forms
You raise me above angry, violent grasps
adrift on open water, I am at rest.
waves lap gently beneath me
rhythmic beats quiet the storm within
You caress my head--
a touch that heals.
Your eyes penetrate my face
compassion dissipates shame
grace conquers guilt
Love captivates me--
once more.
Your love is what I yearn for
my heart stirs wildly in your presence
Your delight consumes me
Your forgiveness brings me back--
to Life.
with one word, I’m no longer a captive.
Now, Blessed Child,
leaping and laughing with joy before her Father
Free…
OCTOBER
Greatness by L. Michael Black Confused and angry, just getting back deeper than any ocean that I have ever seen.
From war in
Sitting in a public park on a dark and dreary day
I saw a tiny figure headed straight my way.
Ever so slowly it glided to come within my sight
Never veering to the left nor turning to the right.
I sat there quite transfixed wondering, and then
I saw it was a little girl perhaps the age of ten.
She stood directly in front me. Her eyes were emerald green-
She took my hand in hers and placed it on her heart,
Causing me to tremble as if my world had come apart!
Tippy-toed and upon my cheek she placed a tiny kiss,
Then slowly back away and vanished in the mist.
Never once did she speak a word,
At least, none that I ever heard.
As she faded out of sight I heard faintly in my ear,
How great thou art and thank you, just for being here.
Confusion
by
William Bryant
Evil is done daily; it is done for goodness’ sake.
The victims protest madly, praying mercy to awake
The evil drink up all their good and horde it in their soul
The good are left with panic and pain; they pay the meek man’s toll.
How can it be that this is bad? On badness joy is built.
My pleasure is my treasure, though locked in my chest of guilt.
Good is done for goodness sake, same ground where evil stands.
The evil do bad to feel good –temptation’s grandest plan
Bad has no basis in itself
Its roots it robs from good
It sucks and twists - distorts and bends
Exist? It never could
For goodness sake is badness done
In evil’s wake is gladness won
Almighty God did not create
That twisted twine our fingers plait
Perverse desires will not abate
Our wicked web well spun
Author: William Bryant
Two From M. Allman
Creator's Nightlight
Incandescent sphere
Hovering in the Heavens
Orbiting Earth's atmosphere.
Creator's night light
glowing, reflecting, moon beams
Elucidate the night sky.
Through a Mother's Eyes
For nine months you developed within my womb.
Safe, warm, protected by my maternal love.
Then you were born, my small, soft, pink little girl.
You needed me then, and for many more years
Until, you became a young woman, a teen.
Although still a child through my eyes, I let go,
But only a little. And as the years passed
You reached adulthood, mature, independent.
No longer the baby I held in my arms,
But in my heart those memories will endure.
Always my little girl, through a mother's eyes
To Die While Flying
by
Ash Krafton
To perish mid-flight--this dreadful thought
may lead to fear of flying,
and perhaps quash desire to live
because of fear of dying.
Denied would be the peaks and vales
that make our lives worthwhile;
what triumph would be victory
not gained through toughest trial?
We should soar like birds that fly
for flying\\\'s sake alone.
I ride the currents with love's wings--
because of you, I've flown.
The winds might change and quickly cause
the joyful to lament,
but birds that die while flying
never know pain of descent.
After The Funeral
by
Sonja R Kosler
Possessions
removed from
drawers
closets
cabinets
cupboards
shelves
walls
placed into
envelopes
trunks
boxes
bags
piles
trash cans
framing a life with
religion
family
simplicity
trust
no more and no less
Possessions
marking a life
complete
September 27, 2004
by
Michael R.Carr
I checked the pumpkins and zucchini-all
that remains of our garden.
The sun, and air peacefully pouring in-
All around the
quiet of life pervades and roots me into the ground.
Farther away in this world a war rages and the blood of those fearfully
and wonderfully made soaks and stains
but never washes away-it never washes
away.
Just now a car drove by. Just now a familiar tune comes across the radio.
Just now my coffee grows cold and
life suddenly becomes unfamiliar. Earth
splits open to show the abyss of our weak hearts.
Two From Stephanie Decker
Trees
In silence they line the streets, bystanders
parting the water allow wheeled flotilla noisily rolling
down rain-blackened stream. All shapes, sizes:
some stiff and dignified in evergreen suits, others shamelessly flaunt
festive, red feathery gowns or orange-berry beaded ensembles.
A leggy group wear a flirt of yellow flounce.
Among them tremble the shabbily dressed whose threadbare coats
sport brittle brown patches.
Impudent round young bushes crowd in front, indifferent.
The elderly trunks bent and limbs misshapen with age, glorious foliage
long-since fallen from crowns.
Together stand in half-hazard formation, watching.
Parade motors by.
The Days Allotted
Walking through the days allotted,
open eyes and hearing heart
will receive, in part, a knowing
of the purpose in the gift.
Walking through the days allotted,
fear bows and praise lifts
holy hands raised in joy above
the suffering and the mundane.
Walking through the days allotted,
thoughts plow and words seed
the path followed, leaving sown
behind the fruit for harvest.
Walking through the days allotted,
works of straw or works of gold--
fire will mold what remains for
the Book of Remembrance recorded
our walking through the days allotted.
On Shores
by
Gary MacLeman
My back is bared and brotherless,
yet I have so many brothers.
I would remain upon this island which I am,
until the seas rise and flood my shores.
The seven shores
by which
I reach
to feel
the sea,
and each
a beach
by which
the waters
in their turn
touch me.
And yet it seems
surpassing strange,
that each beach
though part of me
is separate.
Yet facing still
the self same sea,
I’d reach to touch the rocks
and reefs
which stand between
the seven strands,
until with time
my touch
would crumble
stone to sand,
the seven then
but one.
At the shores of sea
I seek,
I run.
Author:Gary MacLeman
Partner
by
Andrew Grissett
Jesus Christ, so many times I turn away from you
And in my inconsequential manner, I rationalize how to solve the puzzle without you.
I know while you’re i
In Heaven or walking the Earth,
My derisive acts cause anger.
Do forgive me Jesus.
Blasphemies pour from my lips.
Discontent reverberates through my skull.
I want things done now.
But patience is needed.
Jesus Christ, you understand my plight.
I made it at twelve years old,
The love I have for you is everlasting.
Though I echo words that cause me to become perturbed.
You speak clarity to me.
Jesus Christ, I love you.
Together, we can work through anything.
SEPTEMBER
Three From Joanna M. Weston
PROPHET
Some are called to be prophet,
to write songs on the sky,
to cry hurt and flame
from sanctuary or street;
called to sing God’s words
across the world's acrid music:
the song of return and home.
Prophets hold the vision before the world,
crying again and again
"Return, return and be loved,
for love is the first
and the last. Return."
Who heeds the call to return?
Do you? Do I?
Are you singer? Listener?
One who burns the words?
Or one who takes in the whole song.
CARVED IN ROCK
Rock and shaping are one
The hand of the Sculptor
formed this abiding place:
rock and I are one
DESERT JOURNEY
Back-ache and blister,
tent and utensil-packing,
nights when the stones
of the day’s walking
nudge sleep
Days when people
grate heart and spirit
Watching small fires,
collecting daily bread,
complaining, giving thanks,
cleaning worn pots,
eating from chipped plates,
looking askance at neighbors,
caring for children:
This desert that we cross
to a land promised.
Image by:Timo Balk
Hymn of Autumn
by
Karen Kelsay
When the moon becomes a mellow pear
on twilight’s bough, and stars swirl up like maple leaves
before they’re swept into the dawn, I’ve often
walked this garden where the voice of whippoorwills
would carry remnant melodies across long, dusky
hours. At times I feel this eastern breeze has lifted
me, somehow, beyond the soft-lit sloping fields
and conifer lined hills. To lands where only goldenrod
has known me by my smile, and dampness soothes
the head of every yellow aster bloom. Tonight, before
the morning’s crest of ruby will extend through broken
clouds, I whisper prayers again to autumn:
take me there once more.
the blink of an eye
by
Lafayette Wattles
too many arms-lengths,
you, across the street,
at the car door, and
they called me, then,
from over my shoulder,
as they laughed, roughhousing
like the boys they’d been
all those years ago,
and I could feel every moment
you and I ever shared,
could see in their smiles
the best of us,
and I turned back
to tell you, maybe
we’d just been looking
at the wrong parts,
maybe we could make it
after all, and your name stood
in the cave of my mouth,
ready to leap into
the space between us—
all those quiet arguments,
you with your long
silence, me
with my insatiable
need to understand—
but it never left the tongue,
because I looked for you,
as I have all this time,
I looked, and you were gone.
THE MANDOLIN
by
Deborah E. Richard
The little five-year-old
with light brown hair
and radiant smile
plays a melodious tune
on her mandolin
as she sings
her heart’s song
to the One
who created it.
A GARLAND OF VERSE
by
Ashutosh Ghildiyal
Let me make a garland of verse
For words are all I have to give
Let me create a new word music
And elevate you to soaring realms
Where the milky white clouds floating
Upon the lustrous night's canvas
Shall give testimonies of your poetic grace
And words will join together in applause
Let me open a bottle of our mutual wine
And sit by the door to our love street
On a dreamy morning reminding you of me
While the music of the spheres plays along
And while the music plays, let me also sing
With an eraser voice smoothly dissolving
The frozen tears on your time-weary face
Through the distance of the empty space
Then let me strike the chords of harmony
And breathe poetic melodies in your jaded ears
And take you to a mind flight on the word ship
Bound towards the port of our purple sanctuary
Image by:Robert Proksa
Because We Were Rushing to Catch the Bus
by
Laura Shovan
we did not notice the rain.
Too late for umbrellas,
we ran down the sidewalk,
wishing we’d taken the car.
Because we ran
under rain soaked trees,
the children’s heads were damp
when I kissed them at the corner.
Because the children were gone,
I walked home alone.
Dishes in the sink
waiting.
Because of the dishes
I bent my head
before the kitchen window.
A petal fell from my hair --
a pink thumbprint against metal,
pink against the gray day,
pink against the absence of children.
It shook me awake.
Because we were rushing to catch the bus
I carried beauty, unknowing.
Image by: Billy Alexander
Moon Tales
by
Ankur Agarwal
I.
Harpooning the moon
there was this little swatch
of algae, dark, green and wet,
the foot slipped, sine die
and from then on
the moon’s been traveling
you know, round the earth.
II.
I was sitting on
the uppermost bough, the
clouds all dark and azure,
masturbating with the moonbeam
silver fine spray of moonshine
heady with erotic silence all around.
III.
A blue tub full of a blue dye,
all the vats out in the open
to gather honey, all night out,
I only gone out to catch
the full moon on my lips,
but I took a wash and,
I came out a washwoman to the next day’s sun.
Raspberry Delight
by
Neil Clemons
Gramps was first in the patch,
hands darting into prickly green,
snaring and easing
bright reds
into a small tin pail
as he softly hummed
raspberry delight.
Then it was me standing alone
beneath mid-day sun
looking for one more
red of any shade
to fill my little box so I could claim
my first earned dime and hum
raspberry delight.
Strange how life goes full circle—
now I’m the gramps deftly picking
bright reds while the littles
eat two of every three
any-colored juicies they reach
and all together we hum
raspberry delight.
Image by:Bob Knight
Savior
by
Patricia Haggard
And the Light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.John 1:5
Tossed amid the violent waves, my ship
careens as if pushed by giant hands.
Awash in the brutal sea of trials, no stars,
no land, no light. Was this tempest forecast?
Did I choose to sail into this brawl?
The waves overwhelm and I begin to sink.
Drenched, exhausted, alone-the navy void
beckons. As water gushes over the gunwale, the ship
lists. And I stare down to where rest
awaits. But, one last time, I look up-
and a beacon unveils itself.
The lighthouse I have ached for,
appears.
The light reaches out and guides me home.
Image by: Emiel Henning Glossary of an Optimist
by
Karen O'Leary
breeze--nature’s refreshment
freedom--casting off limits
journey--path to dreams
justice--fair solutions
inspired--anything is possible
magenta--bright new day
magic--golden moments
mountain--hill worth climbing
mystery--joy to be discovered
peace--inner acceptance
sailing--alive and free
servant--ticket for hope
soar--riding a rainbow
soul--heart linked to God
sparkle--smiles and laughter
sprinkle--dusting of faith
vision--July in January
water--cleansing rain
whirlwind--time of opportunity
(Image by Eduardo Shafer)
August
Mrs. Altman
By
Russ Maida
Yes, this is the Insurance Company
And I am the supervisor,
How are you today Mrs. Altman?
You speak of losing you personal belongings, of being violated,
of the love you have for you 86 Mercedes,
of your dog that just died.
You speak of the Calvin Klein eyeglasses
The case alone cost three hundred and fifty dollars
and the dog bed thrown in a spot of oil on the ground.
You speak fondly of the dog
but enough about the dog you say.
Louise did not give you enough to compensate you for your loss
yet in the same breath Louise was ever so helpful.
You want to know if radar detectors are covered?
you hope they are not,
since your neighbor had hers stolen recently from her car
and you don’t happen to like her.
Mrs. Altman,
Are you really concerned about the treatment you’re receiving or
are the nights lonely since the death of Mr. Altman.
Your voice is filled with venom
Your heart very lonely
your mind struggles to overcome the grief, fears and doubts
about these 86 years you have traveled this earth.
You have found a listening ear Mrs. Altman
Go ahead and unburden yourself
twenty minutes of my time can be used in many other ways
yet I can think of no better way to spend it.
Some say I’m a fool .......others say I will never make it......
too soft they say,
got to be firm
While they talk......I Will listen
To all the Mrs. Altman’s of the world.
Her Song of Hope
by
Matthew Dexter
Last night the wind was free
To sing against the dismal rain,
And I forgot my daily pain--
For hope she sang
A song for me.
Colors of the Sunset
by
Deborah E. Richard
The colors of the sunset,
Most brilliant, I suppose,
From the artist in the heavens,
To His creatures, He bestows.
Remind us of omnipotence,
Of power, and such might,
A portion, chose He to share with us,
Much to our delight!
The Scent Of Stars
by
Bobbi Sinha-Morey
Now, in the evening,
a new moon comes
awakening me with
its touch like a lover
from above and you were
a figure of light shining
all alone with only a
prayer that your fullness
will ripen and you will
still be there. Once the
tulips opened into red
feather cups to receive
the soft breath you'd
give them and fireflies
in their potent ballet
would listen. Since your
brightness was lifted on
cloud lit wings the scent
of stars has led you away
and the night's music has
you wrapped in the heavens.
Look away from the earth
and let the sky welcome
you like an open door.
July
The Forest Blessing
by
Cindy Champiney
Raindrops fell softly from a darkened sky,
Tall evergreens with outstretched limbs
Were my umbrella as I bowed my head to cry.
The morning doves sang their woeful song,
From somewhere off in the distance
As if to say they knew what was wrong.
With suddenness the wind began to blow,
Sending the message throughout the forest
As if to summon the blanket of sadness to go.
The rain mysteriously stopped falling,
A glimmer of light broke through the leaves
With outstretched arms it was the sun who’d come calling.
The breeze dried my tears with a gentle caress,
And lifted the sadness from my heart
Feeling the warmth of God’s love, I felt blessed.
Not Afraid
by
Ajay Vishwanathan
I always wanted to be Mother Noopur
Not because she walked around with
Magic in her eyes, warmth in her fingertips,
Not because people spoke with her
Just to see her smile
But because she hugged
Diya, Chanchal,
Mohan,
And everyone cursed by God.
They were lepers to the world,
Diseased for a reason they said
That lay in their deeds from past lives.
Mother saw them as lives
In need of grace as she
Held their calloused hands,
Kissed on their numb cheeks,
Wiped tears off their disfigured faces
And whispered love in their dying ears.
They claimed she was brave because
She was immune to the dreaded bacterium
I think she was brave because
She dared to take on the
Healthy
Insensate
Who were afraid to
Hug a leper.
EDEN
by
Cheryl Williams
In this place, I find my Eden.
Like the whisper of butterfly wings
I move softly,
afraid my presence might
disturb that which is holy;
I kneel on mossy ground
as sunlight washes over me;
I inhale the earth...
sweet musk, aged wood,
fresh cleansing rain.
The meadowlark and whippoorwill
make melody
with a gently rushing stream.
What is it about this place
that makes the rest of the world disappear?
Nothing else matters here.
I can just be.
I can feel God surrounding me,
flowing through me,
washing over me
with all that is good.
I never want to leave.
This is my Eden.
June
Soul Infusion
by
Cheryl Williams
Photo by Jenna Leigh Winship
Infused with something stronger
than man,
money,
food
or mind alterations...
Infused with something dearer
than family,
friends,
lovers
or past memories...
Infused with something sweeter
than passion,
romance,
poetry
or love songs...
Infused with Infinite Source,
a wellspring that never ends,
a river endlessly flowing,
timeless and ageless,
a part of who we are...
Creator.
Truth Is A Scar
By
Keith Wallis
Truth is a scar
in perfect flesh
eternal pain scarlet against a pastel palate
bruises and thorns adored and despised.
Truth is the glory of shame
yesterdays dark moments
a negative exposed
into the beauty of a photograph.
The photograph does not lie.
The negative is the liar.
Its dark corners
shining whitenesses
when caressed by revealing touch.
In the darkroom of Your love
we become transformed.
A snapshot of the creator
for the skin of our skin
the moment of our moment
for generation
to speak to generation.
Three From Lisa Cronkhite
What God Looks Like…(from a child’s perspective)
Well, He’s medium built; about lighthouse tall
with weeping willow hair. Sometimes He likes
to wear it down and let it blow in the wind, but
when He’s working on something new, He pulls
it back in a braid.
His flashy ferris-wheel eyes are constantly in
motion. He told me He needs to keep them
spinning to watch the world around us.
Though He mentioned He might need glasses,
since He complained of having fuzzy
spots in some areas of the Earth.
He must have picked the smallest strawberry
in the world for his nose, along with a tiny mouth
made of cardinal feathers. He said He breathes
through his blue skin that’s stretched across the
sky; mumbling to me once, it was more than
He could bare.
I gotta say, it’s pretty silly what God looks like,
I just couldn’t help but laugh at His huge ears
(two moon-size satellites). But I didn’t feel bad
after He laughed too; never forgetting what
He said--To hear all the prayers of course!
Image by :Mathew Beeton
A Moment of Light
As my eyes travel beyond the kitchen window,
observing how the clouds look-- angelic with grey
ribbons parallel to the Eucharist-sized sun, I pause.
Underneath a glowing sky of white, a thin film
of snow softly lies, anointing the earth with cold.
My thoughts are numb, I feel like marble.
Captivated by the cool rush rising off the countertops,
I place my hands on the hard surface--balance
this moment and wonder when the light will dim.
Lying To Myself
I could say the sky is blue today,
but I would be lying. The cold grey
light filtering through the windows
fills the air with a drab feeling
I cannot escape.
I could say the hours fly past
so quickly, but I would be lying.
Time sticks to everything--the walls
closing me in; the floors like lead
cement around my legs.
I could name the day when I last
saw you, but I would be lying
because we’ve never met before.
Why then, do I miss you so?
My Gift
By
Rebekah Webb
My garden became a desert
My sea became a swamp
My heart became a prison
Lost without a map
My tree was bent and battered
I had thrown away my soil
My limbs had all been broken
Torn from their rightful place
The night had come swiftly
In sorrow and in pain
My soul seemed lost forever
To wander out its days
I would not let that happen
My will was just too strong
I fought my way back up
My triumph was my song
The night has left, the day reborn
The time has come to sing
The dark will no longer bind and steal
The soul can now breath free
Sing it well, I give it to you
To do with as you please
I hope you use it wisely
It is my most precious gift
Love Yourself
by
Matteo Spinetti
Do not wait for
yourself
spread yourself,
Beyond the prolongation of your speech
live,
beyond the ordinary sight
seek,
The borders of the mind
Far beyond the shadow of being a man,
do not wait
for yourself
live,
Weaving of threads
Engrossed in weaving
The intricacies of dreams
In the liberation of a body,
that moves, that wants, that wishes,
Beyond yourself
to wards the borders of the world.
Beyond the world,
man’s footprints.
Live.
May
A Window Of Color
by
T. Marie Nantais
As I put the key
into the lock of
the car
I notice the window
in the Church
across the street
Each piece of glass
patterns pictures of
holy men and women
staring out towards
the darkness
the emptiness
of the parking lot
How do you relate
to me?
to us?
Driving our cars past
each morning
each night
destinations different:
teaching children
nursing people
fixing roads
paying bills
breaking hearts
burying babies
realizing the cold
I quickly open
the door
Sitting in the empty car
I speak aloud
to the window of color
If only you could
say something
THE MEALS
by
John Grey
Picture by: Ramasamy Chidambaram
Sun's going down,
mama’s calling,
loud and clear
maybe half a mile away.
Race home
down Steculia, up Palm.
My brother outruns me.
He’s at the table
while I’m scrambling up the stairs.
But, this time, there’s no prize for first.
If my mother loved like she cooked,
we’d be bruised and bloodied
and on the street.
Lumpy potato, burnt meat,
peas like pebbles...
we outran the wind for this?
But it’s duty I suppose.
Somehow, we get it down our throats
and smile while we’re doing it.
Our friend Billy’s mother
cooks meals good enough to eat.
But she’s not our mother.
An early lesson in life...
you don’t choose family.
And the taste buds
suffer the consequence.
And yet we get it down us.
We grow on flavorless food.
But the dessert compensates a little.
Lumpy potatoes, burnt meat,
peas like pebbles...
that’s what little bones are made of.
But smiles to win that old lady’s heart.
Well, the ice-cream has to go somewhere.
Three From David McLean
“This art thou”
i look at trees and hills and animals and think
“i am less than this”
existence in me is an index, a token
that pins a name on a body
a measure to assist recognition
and assigned guilt
i am not arrogant as the Veda's mystic:
i sort of manage to exist -
but these things outside me live
Image by Jennifer Tramel
the sky a temple
the sky a temple always,
though churches have forgotten meanings
and gods were never beings,
unless ontologies quantify over fictional objects
and states of mind, over hypotheses and dreams,
which may be beings too; but not god played by a bad actor
who can only act one part. yet still the sky is here,
a temple full of nothing and an empty heart;
this sky where old dreams end
and new dreams start
the trees tumble
the trees tumble down the strident hill like sonnets
or puppies, and they seem satisfied that night
and water are upon them
the trees grumble about nothing,
had they been dissatisfied they would have evolved
organs of voice.
as it is they just tumble here
like sonnets, or puppies full of love and nothing,
and seem to find life alright
Snowblind
by
Calvin Raithe
On a painted autumn afternoon,
I joined a crowd
gathered like gulls
laughing at a blind man shoveling
scoops of air.
He told us the snow would come;
we ignored
his ignorance.
True, the local waterfall
was frozen over, and the sky
was gray like the mold-
infested sponge
beneath the bathroom sink, but
the only flakes were phantoms.
The next day’s paper presented
our blind man: passed away.
A week later, by his open grave,
balls of snow dropped
like an ivory meteor
shower, and there we stood,
as sculptures
to never melt.
Three From Maureen Hand
MISS DICKINSON:
Is it presumptuous to ask
About your quest for Truth—
Eternity—the Mystery—
The pen your cherished Sleuth—
You’ve labored at your writing desk—
No word dropped carelessly—
A verse wrapped-up in Loneliness—
Birthed under
I too have leafed through lexicons—
No answers to be found—
Life’s cryptic message floats above—
Bones buried in the ground—
Your fantasies cavort with Death—
Eve’s Original Sin—
Immortality summons you—
The Soul lives free again—
You’ll meet Him in the Promised Land—
The Bridegroom holds the key—
Alone at last in
Unlock—the Mystery—
Before you leave—do you have time—
Breathe Life into My Words—
Baptize them in the Holy Font—
Renew them with Allure—
I WONDER…
I often wonder Emily—
What do you hide inside—
What stirs the Fodder for your Feasts—
How does the seed decide—
Your Metaphors and Words live on—
Though other stars do fade—
Your blood flows through well-crafted lines
Instead of tiny veins—
But did you ever yearn for Babes—
And not with Words be Blessed—
And did you yearn for Cupid’s Shot—
Desires not Confessed—
I Deconstruct your every Word
To glean minutest Signs—
Is this some Sublimation here—
Your images—Sublime—
You stepped right through that firmament—
I hope without regret—
When life beyond the grave began—
I wonder—the Secret—
REQUIEM
Maybe I’ll bake lemon meringue pie
for the funeral…
The blissful years,
I’ll bury beneath the garden
to curl around the roots of orchids
and bloom luminous memories.
The painful years,
I’ll place on a flaming pyre
to smolder into opaque teardrops
and twist sadness into ashes.
For the eulogy,
I’ll wail with mourning doves
to wake embers of fires past
and waltz with wind in my arms.
…maybe we’ll fall in love again
and eat lemon meringue pie at
April
Measuring the Empty
Because today is not extraordinary,
devoid of harbingers offering messages
of what’s to come,
while the heavens boast an azure face
and magpies tango on telephone wires-
because today is not unusual;
no bellowers proclaiming the sky
is falling when doors and ceiling windows
remain unlocked, loose ends forever dangling-
because today is grey, not black nor white,
soon to be unnoticed or forgotten
by the greeting of tomorrow, this envelope
of time, this exhausted path that welcomes snow
like age swallowing the nudeness of youth;
this benign creep that carries the flame
through blueness and steals oxygen
to the point of suffocation, each day
my invitation to die-
because this is an uneventful moment
meaningless as it may be, it is only now
that I know for certain, every happiness arrives
without warning and turns to joy when the beauty
of nothingness
becomes profound.
Calculation of Time
I'll cast my soul upon an unmoored stone
as if the bruising never meant to be
will mend with trust and guidance from His throne
becalmed by love and synchronicity,
and there I’ll count the days where angels came
regardless of this wingless realm on earth
imprisoned till awakened, gorgeous dove−
forever-things bring frankincense and mirth.
Because this ceaseless song is ever-heard
how wicked is the ear that turns away
the flautist's tune that haunts all chapel walls
through vesper-bells when summoning the day-
I’m yearning for the crags to pummel bones;
collapsing unto all that’s left of me
tis there I'll heal within the water's grave
as fate and I are one beneath the sea.
Aria
Through the unblinking eyes of heaven
and the curled tongue of windswept clouds
we'll bend to death as soft as the daffodil
each to each we’ll bow upon the field
until our soil weeps with pale tears,
like stains on silk as the sound of carillons ring.
This, our assignation in a land of hymn-less
angels who only know of sanctity
through the blessedness of touching,
who will only hear singing when their ears
have finally deafened and the glorious
memory of home will forever be restored.
Three From Ashutosh Ghildiyal
THE GOLDEN TREASURY
With the Golden Treasury in my hand,
and the fading light falling
onto the yellow pages;
filled with music, rhyme,
and words so grand,
I bathe myself in the glory of bygone ages.
With the viewless wings of poesy I fly,
passing by the daffodils,
a nightingale, and a Grecian Urn.
My mind flowers, my heart utters a joyous cry;
Abounding beauty fills my being,
as each fruitful page I turn.
The Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics is a popular anthology of English poetry, originally selected for publication by Francis Turner Palgrave in 1861.
UNTRIED VERSE
There it comes
Like a pebble dropped in a still pond
Making unknown ripples
With the few stray drops of water
Flying just above the surface
I keep my eager net ready
The empty drum beats
I catch the notes drifting in mid-air
And with one flash of sudden glance
The organization and the categorization commence
Like a weaving bird
I gather the straws that come my way
And like a recreational jeweler with ready pearls
I string my thought pieces
Into a musical necklace of untried verse
TO BEAUTY
Beauty, the glory and elixir of life
Without you, there is no living!
To this life of endless strife
The light of love you keep giving
In the smile of a child
In the joy of a dancing leaf
In the color of a blooming flower
In the flight of a solitary bird
In the sound of the falling rain
In the depth of a heart kind
In the lonely hills gloriously aligned
I see your shadow pass through my mind
Through all the sorrows
And sufferings of mankind
Through the negation
Of all knowledge blind
Through piercing all veils
Making the intellect refined
Leaving all the burdens behind
Denying my self, my knowledge
My experiences, all my luggage
The very foundation of my mind
When I come empty handed
In every corner you I find
Three From Margaret Bryant
LEARNING WITH EMILY DICKINSON
Photo by Clix
Oh Emily, is that you on the list?
MOMENTUM tribute to Emily Dickinson
A meteoric vision
Moving ice and fog
To speak as minute prisms
Collecting on the bog
To write as crystals gather
In unique pattern blends
The slapping winds assaulting
Detaching brittle limbs
Common time has space
Unwrapping timeless hymns.
STAR POWER
’08 ends
with shadows
melting
into the journey
of ’09.
Boots move
blindly
denting snows
of winters ----
now and then----
printing
new paths.
Look up!
Stars strum
A Concert
Celebrate Light!
No one walks Alone.
The Ephesiad
(From Ephesians 4:31-32)
by
James Hall
wrath, anger, and clamor be
put away from you.
Let evil speaking
and all malice be put away.
Be kind to others.
Be tender hearted.
Forgive one another, even
as God forgave you.
Walk worthy of the
vocation wherewith ye are called,
with all lowliness.
Walk with meekness, and
forbearing one another,
hold to unity.
Soul Infusion
by
Cheryl Williams
Infused with something stronger
than man,
money,
food
or mind alterations...
Infused with something dearer
than family,
friends,
lovers
or past memories...
Infused with something sweeter
than passion,
romance,
poetry
or love songs...
Infused with Infinite Source,
a wellspring that never ends,
a river endlessly flowing,
timeless and ageless,
a part of who we are...
Creator.
The
by
John Hayes
The rocky path
leads up the mountain slope.
Where spring water gushes
I drop my staff
drink from cold cupped hands.
Refreshed, I resume my climb.
pierces dampened lungs and aching knees.
Clouds darken above my head.
My orange sweater with the green tortoise
planted on the front, drawn from backpack
offers little warmth as I pull it on.
Six mystic boulders beckon me
I take shelter in their spell.
My fingers probe red mountain dirt
sift it back to earth.
Clouds part
I taste the sapience of sun.
Ceremonial
by
James Eric Watkins
smoke-bath
calm me, wash
my spirit, my traveling
spirit, a spirit who glides
flies with black-feathered wings
stretched tight and flapping . . . .
into this night
soaring, listening
to your voices
to truth dripping from the sky
startle me cold, but more alive
March
Were you to know me
by
Kathy Butterworth
Were you to know me
you would know of a girl in the passing lane
who spins full circle on the ice,
crashes into a snow bank
and the man, just passed,
who stops and cares for her
without a word.
Were you to know me
you would know of a vast cloud
spread across a sky that barely contains it
and the patient sun that waits
for a break and pours its might through it
Were you to know me
You would know of a watchman on his rounds
walking and witnessing, rhythmic as tides
and the earth his footsteps tread,
close to Heaven as he can find.
Two from Carla Martin-Wood
Psalm of the Lost Lamb
I seek you
as the blind wolf searches
the caverns of
its inner darkness
for the moon
having sensed
the silver rising
and howling
knows within emptiness
the unseen more
I fear you as
the aspen leaf trembles
in late autumn sun
and knows not
which small breeze
will end its clinging
send it dying
to the forest floor
I thirst for you as
as the parched earth
splits open
cracks apart
in its agony of waiting
the quenching rain
I was alone
among the arrows of
my enemies
I turned to find you
and you were gone
you abandoned me to
my grief
and left me powerless
in my agony
you stood apart and
permitted my flesh
to be stripped and
my bones
to be polished
as jewels to adorn
those who despised me
O how I have hated you
in my sorrow
how I do not understand
your sublime treachery
how I cannot comprehend
your mysterious purpose
your oceanic absence
I am worn smooth as
the river stone
assaulted by rapids
these thousand years
no edges left
no fight left in me
You are the honey
hidden sweet
within the comb
covered by bees
that threaten
the intruder
You are the elusive nectar
deep within the throat
of the unblemished lily
attainable only
by certain hummingbirds
and butterflies
I eat the bitter rind of despair
and wait for you in the
deserts of my longing
I am alone
as the vastness of space
as the infinite vacuum
between the stars
I am still
as the prey of the spider
wrapped in silken threads
and waiting for disaster
I am silent
as flightless birds
that have forgotten
how to sing
I am empty
as jars of clay
that once contained
the wine of a
lost civilization
O leave
the hundred others
and come
to find me.
The Least of These
Matthew 25: 34-40
The least of these
have faces
we don’t see
they are coins in the poor box
shadows in the doorway
meager fire beneath a bridge
our worst fear becomes
the face we give them
The least of these
had a mother daughter grandchild
college degree
liked bubble baths
sang karaoke
fought for his country
sold cars
liked chocolate
grew roses
ran a business
taught Sunday School
The least of these
got sick
lost a job
was laid off
lost a baby
drank too much
shot up
was abandoned
got old
had Alzheimers Parkinsons Schizophrenia
took too much time
too much money
too much trouble
The least of these
are white black latino gay straight male female
someone’s prodigal
pilgrim soul
a prediction
they have names
Ashley Bob Altheria Samuel Mike
but no one knows them
The least of these
are terrified angry hurt
don’t recognize their reflections anymore
remember Christmas
remember family
can’t remember happy
cry like a baby
when no one sees
can die of a disease
conquered decades ago
have learned to fear hope
more than status quo
The least of these
hunger for respect
a job
a bath
clean water
clothes
a corner to hide in
sleep
a day of not looking behind them
acknowledgement
of their humanity
The least of these
belong to us
in shame or glory
inasmuch as we open our hearts
inasmuch as we close them.
Matthew 25: 34-40
The least of these
have faces
we don’t see
they are coins in the poor box
shadows in the doorway
meager fire beneath a bridge
our worst fear becomes
the face we give them
The least of these
had a mother daughter grandchild
college degree
liked bubble baths
sang karaoke
fought for his country
sold cars
liked chocolate
grew roses
ran a business
taught Sunday School
The least of these
got sick
lost a job
was laid off
lost a baby
drank too much
shot up
was abandoned
got old
had Alzheimers Parkinsons Schizophrenia
took too much time
too much money
too much trouble
The least of these
are white black latino gay straight male female
someone’s prodigal
pilgrim soul
a prediction
they have names
Ashley Bob Altheria Samuel Mike
but no one knows them
The least of these
are terrified angry hurt
don’t recognize their reflections anymore
remember Christmas
remember family
can’t remember happy
cry like a baby
when no one sees
can die of a disease
conquered decades ago
have learned to fear hope
more than status quo
The least of these
hunger for respect
a job
a bath
clean water
clothes
a corner to hide in
sleep
a day of not looking behind them
acknowledgement
of their humanity
The least of these
belong to us
in shame or glory
inasmuch as we open our hearts
inasmuch as we close them.
Photo by: Leroy Skalstad
Three from Ashutosh Ghildiyal
THOSE HILLS
Those hills, so close, yet so distant
Looking at them, you forget yourself
For one timeless instant
Overwhelmed by their overwhelming beauty
Standing there, you grow aware
Of the age of this earth
And of your own impermanence
They will remain, and you, with your
Sorrows, pains, and worries, will pass away
They will be there, as they have been
Since long before you came
STEP LIGHTLY
Step lightly, oh friend
On this aged worn earth
Oh step lightly, live as a guest
In the world of men, live abundantly
In the world of nature
Where many unsung beauties
Nurture the ever-new blossoms
Of the ever-present now
Let your senses flower
Beyond the accumulated dross
Of the centuries of civilization
And wash yourself in the clear light
Of pure perception
Letting the barren holds of tradition
Be loosened in the fresh air
Of selfless abandon
Let your ears hear the unheard melodies
Let your eyes see the mystical colors
Of the ever- present, ever- new reflections
Scattered all around you
Let your heart and mind move
From their fixed base
And throw open the illusory gates
To let the waiting immensity enter
THE SEARCH
Searched in vain,
I have,
Grappled after the unknown,
I have,
With the memories of yesterday,
Projected the images of tomorrow,
I have,
Sought to seek,
I have,
The object of my own fancy,
Crafted out of my own wish,
I have,
Many a tantalizing carrots,
Dangled in front of me,
I have,
With promises of another life,
I have,
Deceived myself endlessly,
I have,
In hope of arriving at the unknown
Destination of my own knowledge,
I have,
Blind to the ever near,
Sought after the far away,
I have,
Till the seeker and the sought,
The thinker and the thought,
Three From Robert Villanueva
THE PERCEPTION OF LIGHT
I do not count stars
or gaze too long
at Cassiopeia,
Ursa Major,
Auriga.
Lights winking
at me,
their false innuendo
like sparks of hope,
might long be dead,
might be fires burned out,
orbs grown cold into nothingness,
tricks of time and space.
Orion and Taurus
shine among the dead,
dance in their dark graveyard,
indistinguishable from ghosts.
I do not count days
since you left
or gaze too long at photos
of
Eyes winking
at me,
their sparkling suggestiveness,
are flashes of fool’s gold.
Cold, lifeless orbs,
your tricks of time and space,
are easier to recognize
when they are not
light years away,
fires that flickered and died
long before I looked upon them.
Since I have no use for love
I’ve closed myself up tight.
The shuttered attic up above
does not let in the light.
All the windows have been latched;
I’ve drawn the shades as well.
The fragile glass has gone unscratched
as far as I can tell.
Never do I answer knocks
that sound at my front door.
The portal has so many locks
it’s not used anymore.
Still, I find, without a doubt,
my foes - like oxygen:
despite attempts to keep it out,
the damned thing still gets in.
REST STOP NEAR
JUNE 23, 1954
American soldier’s bride,
her skin the color between
dogwood blossom white
and creamy coffee brown,
traveling through the
to a military base
in a new country with her new husband,
air wet with heat,
wavering buzz of cicadas surrounding them,
she entered the room at the rest stop
where she saw other women go.
Eyes of dark strangers watched her
as she entered the stall,
sparkled in the gray mirror
as she washed her hands;
proud smiles, appreciative nods
baffled her as she left,
yet she remained unaware of her significance,
her inadvertent statement.
Journey from her
allowed her to bring very little from her country,
except her inability
to read the foreign words
announcing the foreign concept:
“Colored Only.
SIENNA byRoy A Barnes (Previously published in Poesia and in Serendipity Poets of Cheyenne Journal 2008.)bathed in that Gothic presence:My cares slept soundlyIl Campo beckoned-Transfixed by its high torreruling the clear skyHer narrows were trekkedWhile roaming, peace descendedupon Tuscan’s eve 
I could have lost you
I could have lost you
at the outset in high school
when you returned my ring to me
because I was moving too fast.
I could have lost you
when we first went off to college
and you decided you needed
to date other boys
for the freedom, for the experience.
I could have lost you
because we were apart, at different colleges
and you did date another guy
and you did have plenty of boyfriends
trailing along behind you all over the campus.
But, for whatever the reasons
I did not lose you,
you never left me like you could have
for another guy, you remained mine,
mine, blessing my life
with your beautiful, superlative self
when certainly you could have done better.
Yes, I could have lost you but I didn’t,
and I don’t know why
you are still mine.
If I live 1000 years, I’ll never be able
to figure that one out.
How could I not?
If I didn’t know you yet saw you today,
on the street or in a store,
in a classroom or on the dance floor,
I would fall in love with you all over again,
I know I would.
I’d fall in love with you as I did
all those many years ago.
How could I not?
How could any man not? Just look at you!
I’d fall in love with your smile
and your shining mink-coat brown eyes.
I’d fall in love with your laugh
and your legs, your delicate hands
and precious feet. I’d fall in love
with you, with all of you.
How in the world could I not?
And more than anything in the whole world
I would want you to be mine,
would want you to let me love you,
to have and to hold you,
to pamper and to worship you,
until the breath left my body for good.
I see your pretty face,
hear your so familiar voice,
watch your precious movements across the room,
and my heart is so full.
I turn to the photos of you before I came along,
15 years old, so innocent and sweet
lying on the blanket at Dallenbach’s beach,
acting with your friends in a summer stock play,
and my heart is so full.
I recall our first dance,
holding you so tenderly against me,
our first kiss, so tentative, yet sure,
our very first date when I asked you to be mine,
and my heart is so full.
I replay the scene
of my proposing to you in the dark,
fumbling with the ring,
and you saying yes and crying,
my world exploding with happiness and relief,
and my heart is so full.
I think again of kissing you,
feeling your warm mouth on mine,
feeling your slender fingers laced between mine,
stare as your perfect smile
shines on me still,
and my heart is so full
I fear it will burst.
Two from Fredrick Zydek
Bits of Light
Bits of light, millions of them,
none in a single place, know
how to keep their distance
from the others. There is joy
in such things. They swarm
together in a single atom.
If we could get in one and look
around, we’d see that just as in
our universe, there is more space
between the lights than lights,
more nothingness than there is
somethingness. Atoms are
made of mostly space and distance
which means you and I are made
of more nothing than anything
else. What there is of us exists
as light, clouds of light, visible
manifestation of an invisible reality.
Everything - our bones, our sinews,
our ability to think - is generated
by the light. It is not in us like
a raisin is in a bun but as the ocean
is in a wave. We are waves of light
finding new ways to have joy.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The Path Through Grief
You will find no favored rest stops
along the way, though you will seek
them many times. You will walk
in the wake of a great shadow.
You might as well wear sackcloth
and ashes. Anguish will be your
middle name, tears your currency.
You will forget that everything dies
and all things change. You will build
shrines no one else can enter, believing
they will house the soul and spirit
of the one you have lost. Before long,
you will discover each is a place you
hide from a truth you do not want
to hear. When you reach that point
on the journey, you will be so close
to returning to the rest of your life,
you may not even notice you have
left the path behind and entered
into a landscape of prayers that have
learned how to say their last goodbyes.
In the Passage of Dream-time
I enter my rainbows, stirring in slumbering amour,
Infinite hospitality of blissful excellence.
In dreams, I roam through forests of reflections,
Discover Banyan trees of euphoria,
Beyond the doorway to exalted realities,
I merge with unfathomable mountains,
Behold distant horizons,
Spirit's harvest brings forth gardens of beauty before my eyes,
I blend with orchids without worries,
Roses that have no scent of fear,
Daffodils that can so fluently waltz, the dance of gladness,
Gardenia and Azaleas that liberate joy infused perfumes.
My smiling soul’s reflection shines celestial love beams,
I ride upon the magnetic waves of angel wings
Across the heavens majestic high-ways,
All too soon, a new day dawns
The passage of dream-time slowly extinguishes itself,
Eloquent virtues of Mother Nature’s bounty,
Open-up an array of gifts for my mortal senses pleasure,
Blessings of my minds awakening renewal,
I travel inside the music of my vitality,
Alight, to the rhythm ‘n pulses of my heartbeat,
In the brightness of the early dawn
Daytime illusions enter, their unrehearsed roll plays.
The Stranger
by
Somnath Mitra
The motionless blue shallows of the brook
The deafening silence of the jungle here,
Makes me look into my heart in despair,
The pangs of always being an outsider,
Haunts and fragments me as ever.
Tell me why this is so for some,
Who always stand alone, uninvited
And undesirable everywhere , fret
Avoid, hate and punish themselves.
What is it that will make you
And me forget, all the refusals
That came our way in grey colors,
And how the shame of the rat race
Forced us to be hopeless intellectuals.
To ponder and recreate again the mess,
Fleeing and muttering to ourselves -
Difficult friend, to keep the pace,
A matter of conjecture and guess.
The silence, the innocence here,
The bleeding heart of our dreams
Tries to pollute the clear stream.
Awkwardly I watch the water gleam
Do all these sound to you familiar?
Graphic by Armando Apollo
Until the End of Time
by
Keith Powell
God, help me to walk in who I am
Lord, help me take my place
And be among those who’ve received
Your blessings and Your grace
God, help me walk in who I am
And follow not another’s plan
Seeking higher ground I will
Seek higher, higher, higher still
God help me walk in who I am
That all my testing be not in vain
That I could boast, (no wasted pain)
For a glimpse of You, I’d go again
God help me walk in who I am
That I would do my family well
Provide my wife with pleasant days
And my children with godly ways
God help me walk in who I am
That I should trust my inner man
Step out in faith and expect to see
Results that prove God lives in me
God help me walk in who I am
Speaking words that edify
Trusting in the Word of God
To bring to pass the best of life
God help me walk in who I am
A praying man who counts on God
To bring to pass - what I can’t see
To make me all that I can be
God help me walk in who I am
With words that speak of future plans
And teaching that provides the soul
With food that helps the spirit grow
God help me walk in who I am
Yielding not to satan’s ploys
Listening not to satan’s noise
Joining not with satan’s boys
God help me walk in who I am
Boasting not what I can do
Taking people to the cross
To get them through
God help me walk in who I am
Standing firm in what You’ve said
Bringing those who need to know
First the salt - then the bread
God help me walk in who I am
And never doubt Your ways
To always be alert to see
You are the Ancient of Days
God help me walk in who I am
And learn to be what You designed
Each day to serve You more and more
Until the end of time
January
Three from Paul Ingrassia
blind doves
withered companionship
fall of the faithful
the lost soul turns aside
from the legacy of
blind doves’ eyes
a life so morose
passing of hope
the lost soul hiding
from the harsh scrutiny of
blind doves’ eyes
restrict all emotion
end of love
the lost soul cowering
from the contemptuous glare of
blind doves’ eyes
when faith falls
and hope passes
and love ends
dark crystals fall from
the eyes of blind doves
~~~
The Isle of Faith
My soul
sails across seas
swept with fear and despair --
then,
not lost.
~~~
Awakening
At dawn,
the sun’s rays chase
away the moist vapor,
petal and bud give up their dew --
new day.
New day
greets me warmly
as I slide from the sheets,
naked as the moment of birth --
fresh start.
Fresh start,
clean slate, new leaf:
old clichés that ring true
in the embrace of renascence --
at dawn.
Paul Ingrassia
…Listening
by
Christian Motley
I want the sound of my ancestors
To be available like the air I breathe
As they impart to me the wisdom of ancient African royalty
I want to hear clearly the secrets of their courage
And the substance of their thoughts
I want to be bi-lingual in the languages of history and understanding
And speak in dialects of multiple perspectives
All with a realization of a world that’s reflective
Of the human spirit
I want to take a walk
Then suddenly close my eyes and stop talking
So that I can hear the rhythm of my footsteps
As I make my way along a paved road
Smoothed along the jagged scars and broken backs of mothers
Who bred their young to believe
There would be a day when their daughter’s daughter’s daughter
Would give birth to a thousand more martyrs
All giving all to better the human condition
I want to feel the sensation of fear’s mighty bass drum as it fades into
The delightful melody of peace
And as I piece together the pieces of me
To bring about my own…peace
Because in me, I know that it must begin with
“I” listening for my mother’s voice
And promising to bring forth
Through the gift of her mother
The day when voices don’t matter
And the binds of the voiceless are shattered
To bring a unity of eyelids
Comprehension to the fact of our inherent oneness
I want to be slow to speak
For I know that no man knows
And the ones who do, know they don’t
I want to be quick to hear
Because I know that “hear” is home
And I want to know that when I go there
I always find my place
…listening
Solidarity
By
Anna DeVine
My reality arrives
At a mundane world
Where zombies aimlessly roam
In a paddock whilst machines
Fulfilling their duty of
Whispering me without
Pensiveness or passion
Now entombed in an existence
Forcing me to exist in
The purest form of ugliness,
A daily nightmare far worse
Than a mere awareness
To my nostalgic emptiness
And though I take it all in,
I’m still left unaware
Of what it all means
For I am a dreamer
Whose only enthrallment
Comes from haunting
The lost world of the imagination
A ghost, existentially vague
I see no other way to be
Now that I must deepen the need
Of having to be me
E mail Editor Pamela Tyree Griffin
About joyful!
Since 2008, joyful!has been a place where all types of high quality work with a spiritual, motivational and/or religious point of view are respected. No one religious or spiritual belief is favored over another. joyful! seeks to be a place where all who have wonderful creative gifts to share are welcomed to submit. While not every submission can be accepted, every submission is read/reviewed by me. When possible, I try to send a personal response.
joyful! welcomes brand new writers as well as established creatives. Many have gotten their start here--why not you? Please use the submission page to send your work and please pay attention to the guidelines.
Pamela Tyree Griffin, Editor
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Daily Verses
Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving. - Kahlil Gibran 
