joyful!

JULY

 

Here Am I, O Lord Psalm 143

by

Christine M Ramey

 

 

Here am I, O Lord as I pray here tonight.
Listen, as I submit to you my supplications.
My heart seeks to make things right.
If you answer me Lord~~ that will be my satisfaction!
Overwhelmed is my spirit and desolate is my heart.
Yet, my soul longs to be near to thee.
Lord, don’t go far away as I don’t like to be apart.
Hurry, please answer my plea.

Here am I, O Lord anxiously I await to hear your love come shinning through.
For I have sought you in my darkness of the hour.
It was in the midst that I chose to walk  and meditate with you.
I have trusted you to hide me from my enemies and keep me safe.
Because of this I have come to learn your awesome power.
I am so thankful that you sent your son on my behalf.

Here am I, O Lord I have thankful that you do hear my prayers
I know you will teach me to follow your will.
Knowing the affliction I must bear.
Will help to see that you love me still!

---

 

---

Bio: Christine M Ramey is a ready writer Psalm 45:1. She has been published by www.ExtremeWomenMagazine.com and www.ChristianDevotion.us and www.JaxChristian.com. She is currently working on her first novel "The Sins of a Preacher's Wife." She enjoys her days writings, being involved with writing groups and of course spending time with her family. Jacksonville,Fl is where she resides with her family.

---

 

PATIENT FAITH

by

Joanna M. Weston

 

This patience must,
in strength to trust,
be learned and lived
when hope is dust.                   

Faith is to wait,
not desolate,
beyond the point
where hangs debate,

past queries said
or answers dead
to vacant tomb
and Light ahead.

---

Bio: JOANNA M. WESTON has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty five years. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.

---

Recipe

by

Sarah Stasik

 

I am stirred, but not done.

God has seasoned me,
heated me,
brought me to boil.
Up over the pot,
down to the flame;
protected,
collected,
transformed into steam.

Infusion of Grace,
and I'm no longer me.

Slowly He cools me,
pulls me back to the pan;
Recipe done,
He begins once again:
Heating me, kneading me...

It is who I am.

 

---

Bio: Sarah Stasik lives on a crooked mountain in Southwest, VA with her family.  She enjoys crafting, reading, and writing.

---

 

 

Greenhouse

by

Laura Dennis

 

dreary day
misty rain
inside the warm scent
of black dirt
and brightly coloured
hothouse flowers
perfume the air
with hope and promise
soon spring
planting can begin

---

Bio: Laura Dennis lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. She's been published at blueskiespoetry.ca, and in the anthology Home and Away from House of Blue Skies and will have a poem appearing this month in http://4and20poetry.com/. Her self-published chapbook is entitled Wheels on the Bus. http://www.publishyourself.ca/ldennis.html  

---

 

 

Clown Without A Circus

By

Greer Woodward Sucke

 

 

 

A clown
Without a circus
Needs a place
To hang his smile
He packs his
Stars and spangles
In a suitcase
For a while
He walks along
The highway
As the wagons
Pass him by
He doesn’t 
Seem to notice
There’s still glitter
In his eye

A clown
Without a circus
Needs a child
To take his hands
To tell him
That he’s wanted
That he soon will
Fill the stands
That crowds will soon
Be yelling
For his cartwheels
And his falls
But only
In his memory
Does he hear those
Joyful calls

Then suddenly
There’s magic
And he’s back
In center ring
The sawdust
Turns to stardust
And he’s crowned
A circus king

A clown
Who finds a circus
Has a chance
To make his mark
He stands
In stars and spangles
And his spotlight
Floods the dark
He takes his smile
And waves it
While the crowd
Is going wild
And hangs the
Dazzling crescent
On the small lips
Of a child

---

Bio: Greer Woodward lives on the Big Island of Hawaii, in the shadow of Mauna Kea.  Her speculative fiction and poetry is in TWISTED CAT TALES, STRANGE STORIES OF SAND AND SEA, BEYOND CENTAURI, STAR*LINE, and is upcoming in SHELTER OF DAYLIGHT.  She's a Clarion West graduate and currently a member of the Writers Support Group at Tutu's House in her home town of Waimea.

---

 

 

---

JUNE

 

Three From Matthew A. Hamilton

Ocean Front Epitaph 

 

Winter—
walking on the beach,
sea shells crunching beneath me, the cold watery
air quenching my arid lungs,
I spy a seagull on an icy branch of a palmetto tree.

He fluffs his wings.
He pecks a branch.
He moves about like a lonely man.

He notices me looking at him.
He doesn’t fly away.
I suppose he is lonely. I am lonely.
He wants to keep me company or have my company—
I do not know which—
and probably thinks—as I with him—
a strange creature.

We talk for a few minutes
about the world around us.
I tell him about the day I lost my wife to cancer.

It was a day like today,
wet and cold.
She was propped up in bed
in the 300 thread count sheets
we bought inexpensively
in Egypt.
I stored them in the hall closet.
They are shrouds from the death angel
and the memories of hidden pyramids in the sand and tide.

I remember the smile she strained to give me
as I sat down beside her to kiss her cheek,
her spirit escaping her,
absorbing into my lips.

She bore a heavy pain.
Now she is pain free.
She lives in the brilliant 
realities of heaven,
where I, one day,  hope to join her.

Liquid Compass 

I have traveled the world.
I have seen every ocean—
their color, their fleecy waves,
their sand white and dark,
full of rocks;
yet I know little what lies beneath.

I have seen many rivers and lakes and ponds;
their busy treasures, their calm;
yet I know little what lies beneath.

How much so for people.
Every day I see them,
what they wear, what they do. I speak to
them as if they were family;
yet I know little what lies beneath.

Everyday I see myself in the mirror. I grow older;
a new wrinkle, blemish, one less hair of a different color;
yet I know little what lies beneath.

I left my liquid dwelling and sprouted legs.
I moved from tide to time in search for answers;
yet—in my haste—I dropped them in the wet sand.
Now I know nothing.
I have lost my way.
I don’t know where home is. It’s covered in the
darkness, taken away by a lonely hermit crab.
I hear it laughing at me in the distance.

The ocean struggles with the moon.
The sun sprouts wings and flies away.
The stars go dark; not even a shadow remains.

What do I do?
How do I find my way home?
Must I go to the temple?
Where is the temple?
Must I go to God?
Where is God?

The Miracle of Water 

The silence of the ocean
separates me from the noise of the city.
It’s like a cloud colliding with a mountain or
a raindrop absorbed
by the orange glow of the sun.

The ocean speaks to me in truth.
I long to know the truth,
the mysteries of daydream
sand and the meditative blue
of my conscience.

The red night sky
and the whisper of the wind
echoes beneath the high places of my heart.
The Palmetto sings to the pelican notes of creation as I
ponder my lonely daydreams
and pensive realities of liquid utopia.

The blood of angels cleanses the salty deep.
The souls of purgatory
drink moon water
and pray for peace
within the chaotic world of a divided sea.

Come to the edge or the world
and see mermaids play.
Watch the boils
of hate separate from my
insensitive body.

Come to my room
and observe my barter with death.
Follow the light of my innocence
and overpowering joy.

Listen
to the waters of contemplation
and ease your appetite
with the nourishment
of celestial rain.

 

###

---

I am a US Peace Corps Volunteer serving in the Philippines. My work appears in Raphael's Village, Crow's Nest Magazine, Blink Ink, and Six Sentences. I have forthcoming work in Metazen Magazine, Flash Shot, A Long Story Short, and The Battered Suitcase. After service, I plan to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing

 

---

Two From Rhonda Maness

 

 

Telling God About Grief

Tell him that your substance has changed,
that you soul has taken on bones,
slender and pointed
that rattle in their own frame.
Tell him that they prick and slice,
but your soul cannot bleed,
does not die.
Tell him the infectious ache
hit your heart and flattened your faith.
Tell him that he should know all of this.
And when you are finished
sit back like a tired patient
and wait for the sutures to come,
the gauze to cushion cuts
and scars to start.
And you will know the hurt
when God releases it,
like a new soul slipping
from an old tomb.



Path to Letting Go

Today as the sun beats down
and water hangs in the air
like suspended tears;
I will make another path;
the old ones won't do.
They are old, packed dust,
now to clean, now to free.
I'll kick through the stiff brush,
rounded and gnarled
like rooted tumbleweeds.
I'll shove against branches,
their tangeled limbs
will gouge my shoulders;
their thorns and splinters
will snip at old scars
until they bleed, new.
I will ache, bleed, cough and crack.
Then, the crickets broken song
will stutter across the air.
And I will see the cool, clean grass
and I will stretch out and watch the stars
begin to net the sky.
I will watch the clouds roll over
and form river banks
on either side of the moon
and I will hear the splash
of those who now dive
into air.
I will know the path behind me
And the space that stretches above me
like a full and airy bandage
always fit to sail.

---

I have been writing poetryfor many years and was most recently published in, "River Poet's Journal". Winter 2010. I make my home in Alabama

###

---

 Three From Christina Ann Cole

 

Hymn for Sunday

To God all gratefulness and praise
For this beautiful Sabbath day,
And with this hymn our voices raise,
Forever we sing, “Gloria!”

For all thy saints, present and past,
Their wondrous works and faithfulness,
Miracles that will always last,
Forever we sing, “Gloria!”

For sending your son to be born
From the virgin mother Mary,
Celebrating that Christmas morn,
Forever we sing, “Gloria!”

The Wise Men came after twelve days,
Following the star in the East.
They too offered gifts and praise.
Forever we sing, “Gloria!”

Christ cheated death and rose again,
After atoning for our sins.
That Christ our King will always reign,
Forever we sing, “Gloria!”

Sing praise to God, the three-in-one,
Who loves and gives to all the world.
Life in heaven is yet to come,
Forever we sing, “Gloria!”



Vocation

I was called to be an Anglican nun
From the time I was five years old.
Spouse of the Father and spouse of the Son –
A vocation is a future foretold.
I wanted to do God’s will for my life,
Although, for some, it was hard to abide.
I would never be another man’s wife
Because Christ had chosen me to be His bride.
I relinquished all material things,
Maintained purity of body and mind,
Put aside the stubbornness that youth brings,
Selfless in service as Jesus was kind.
My life has been fully consecrated;
All others’ dreams for me have abated.



Ephesians 3:15

Sisters coming and going on the mount,
The place that’s known as Galilee.
All shrouded in black, too many to count.
When I arrived, they welcomed me
Into the safe, dark cloistered home,
Never again to live alone.
Continued prayer and discernment until
A lovely day one year from now.
It shall be done according to God’s will
Three lifelong virtues I avow:
Poverty, chastity, another still,
Obedience.  These things I endow –

To the honor and greater glory of
God the father, my one true love.
Bride of Christ, I shall consecrate my life,
With Him my spouse and I His wife.
We revere the blessed virgin mother
When we became something other
Than what we originally proclaimed.
Mary: the whole family is named.

---

Christina Cole grew up in the Washington-Baltimore area, and has a BA and an MA in English Language and Literature.  She was a dancer for twenty years, and currently works in the field of arts administration.  

###

Homeward Bound

by

Sandra K. Patton

You whispered to me softly
So only I could hear,
Daddy's waiting for me honey,
And my time is drawing near

These tears I shed are selfish
I can't bear for you to leave
Yet, I must be brave because
You'd hate to see me grieve

Forever you have been my hero
I pray you always knew
You were my rock and refuge
A legacy of love, to me from you

And when my broken heart recalls
Your gentle smile and selfless ways
I’ll dry my tears because I know
You dwell in Heaven, all your days

Your locket rests next to my heart
A reminder that I’ll miss you so
But Daddy's waiting for you Mama,
And it's time for you to go

---

I'm recently retired, and therefore have more time to write.  Still very much a novice, but am excited about learning all I can.  Writing, I am finding,  soothes my soul, and I try and do a little bit each day.  I currently use FanStory to post some of my poetry.  I'm married with an only daughter in her first year of college.  Born and raised, and most likely will always reside, in Virginia.

###

 

MAY

 

 

###

 

Bio:Karen O'Leary is a wife, mother, nurse, and freelance writer from North Dakota.  Her short stories, articles, and poetry have appeared in various venues including, but not limited to, SP Quill, Storyteller, Fine Lines, Sketchbook, Beyond Katrina, The Journal of Christian Nursing, Art With Words and Karen O’Leary, American Poet « The Sound Of Poetry Review.   Karen also judged our first annual poetry contest this year.

---

Three From Dr. Ehud Sela

 

 

THE ONLY WORTHY NEWS

This morning a young bird
Rested on the struck tree:
A week back strong wind
Snapped away its copious top:
By now its blood of sap has stopped
Its flow along its trunk
Slow and low and low.

She jumped from leafing bough
To smaller branch
Where tender leaves sprung
As if awaken by her feet.

The sky a peaceful blue
And clouds were merely distant
News of rumors heard of wars
And death.

But this morning a young bird
Rested on the struck tree
The only worthy news.


IDYLLIC

Sky drifted over streets
Where homes stood wondering
Will someone come and open doors
Slide the curtains
Turn the lights on
And sit in the green sofa
Content at day’s end.

Sounds drifting from outside
Of people walking side by side,
Child with ice-cream cone
And dog sniffing clouds above:
Carefree, secure, with man at side,
Where cat on windowsill
Yawned at setting sun,
Stretched and waited by the door
When he heard us come.



AS IF REMEMBERING

So he thought for a while of change
He pondered carefully its consequences
The ramifications of such a move.

Will anybody in the swerving crowds notice
That he had joined them?
Will they be able to tell by his face
That the change has taken place:

That he is no longer who he was
That he shed his skin in one swift move
And underneath glimmering, novel
A new being has emerged?

Like a new delta he will branch
From broken twigs left for dead
Leaves will sprout
As if remembering.

###

Bio: Dr. Ehud Sela owns and operates a Veterinary Animal Hospital in Margate, Florida. Dr. Sela writes both poetry and prose. His writings can be found in the following magazines—on line:
Virgogray Press/Carcinogenic Poetry, Sacramento Poetry, Gloom cupboard, Sage of consciousness, Artistry of life, Events Quarterly, Mind Fire, and Munyori poetry journal' HIs work also appears in print at The Ugly Tree, Mucus Art Press, UK ,A Hudson View, Poetry Digest, USA and many others.
 

---

A Somewhere Over Moment…

by

Lise Whitdden

 

God’s fingers slide color across the sky to form the rainbow, His own beacon with more promise than the morning sunrise. And I am unable to find the language I’ve spoken sadly or sing laments I have rehearsed as the moon leaks light through my windows. While colors mark washed sky I cannot remember the gray before rain or how quickly lightning flashes right before thunder. All I realize is how clouds slow to be painted. All I hear is gentle music, the sound made by rushing currents of ginger colored puddles. In this moment I understand about places beyond rainbows and I see my son waking in heaven.

     

###  

 

Bio: Lise Whidden is a writer from North Carolina. Her work has appeared in Shine!.. A Literary Journal, Lily Literary Review, Hiss Quarterly, The Dead Mule, Crimson Highway, Subtle Tea, Mad Hatter’s Review, Triggerfish, Nothing But Red, Toronto Quarterly, Dogplotz ,Gutter Eloquence, Holly Rose Review and Lilith..A Collection of Women’s Writes. Lise Whidden is a writer who is learning to dance in mud puddles after a hard rain.
                            

---

Rethinking Genesis

by

Susan Katherine Stewart

 

The bible and my grandfather
claimed that woman was born from a man’s rib.
She was surrendered flesh, given, sacrificed
so that he would not be alone.
My grandfather could always affirm
he was not alone.

The years my grandmother bore his children,
his family,
him,
he was not alone.

I look into the single grave they dig for her.
I think about her pregnancies and recipes,
her strong arms trapezoidal on her hips and her
legs dead-set against accident.
I wonder about her gift for creation:
quilts that, even after her death, keep me warm,
food that fed me, food that I dreamt about
nine-hundred miles away,
her calm that withstood wars and depression and the daily trauma
of caring, the responsibility
that creates lonliness.

I think about her, about the finality that was her.
This was no rib.
This was clay.
This was earth.
This was brick.
This was the one last concrete cornerstone of us.
Now, just stone.

 

###

 

Bio: Susan Stewart recently acquired two stepchildren from Great Britain.  She lives with her partner in Kentucky, where she struggles as a sometime teacher, writer, and editor.

---

Her Miraculous Kiss

by

Ricky Brooks

 

Her kiss:  miraculous.

My past?  Unimportant.

My sins?  Forgiven.

My future?  Suddenly brighter.

She speaks and my soul soars.

“Da-da.”

 

 

 

###

 Bio: Born and raised in St. Louis, MO.  Retired from the Army in '02.  Currently relaxing and enjoying life in scenic San Antonio, TX.

---

 

    Becoming A Poem

    by

   Charlotte Ann Zuzak

    It has been so long since I have written,
    since inspiration has touched me,
    but I have been moved by the rough beauty
    of Eire, in spite of the cold and rain.
    I returned to the land which moved me
    in a way I cannot describe on paper.  I can
    only stand and observe the raw allure.
    of green hills imbedded with craggy stone.

    The music and stories which entertain
    at the end of a day of hard labor,
    a sharing of talent handed down by the bards
    in the pubs where the whistle, the bodrhán, the
    bagpipes and fiddles combine to create
    a setting of the past as the dancing begins.

    I surrender to feelings of pain and joy,
    of the  present emerging from
    anger, war and death.
    I retreat to my beginnings, the land that formed me,
    becoming part of a poem

 

 

###

 

Bio: Charlotte has a bachelor’s degree in Spanish from Albion College, and a master’s in Spanish: foreign languages and literature from the University of Michigan.  She has taught on the secondary and college levels. She has also worked as a piano accompanist for voice students, and as a church organist.With her husband, a retired university dean, she has traveled extensively.  Her latest trip was to Croatia.  She enjoys knitting and making items for her one year old granddaughterHer poetry and short stories have appeared in many journals.  She received awards from The Lake Ontario Writers’ group.

 April

Annunciation

by

Stephen Pohl

 

Lest all be lost
to sin’s increase
and praise redound
to Satan’s lie
of dark renown,

when angels speak
what God decrees
and men confound
there is a grace
that does abound.

###

 

Stephen Pohl writes from Baltimore. His articles, stories and poetry have appeared in nationa and regional magazines and online. He has a degree in Theater Arts and works in other fields that are a lot less fun, but pay you for your suffering.

---

Two From E. B. Dreier

 

PRODUCE


The produce aisle
Looks like a beautiful rainbow.
Being there lets you know
God’s way is right.

The colors, the scents, the textures…
All obligate you somehow, to the truth
That yes, Mom was right too.

“Eat your vegetables.
Fruits are your friends.”
She told you how many times?
In one of those far off places of your brain,
You can still hear her say it.

Captured in a gelatin capsule –
“All the ‘Good for you’.
Trust us!  Take it every day.  We know!”

God and Mom.
Why does that sprinkler
Always wait for my sleeve?
Turn the corner – soup!

 

 

THE OCEAN

The ocean breezes
Blow my hair across my face
They leave me breathless.

My feet in the sand
Makes me feel free and alive.
The sand, is soothing.

The sky above me,
Is filled with beauty and peace.
The birds are winging.

I am happy here.
I feel joyful in this place.
I see God’s hand move.

Master Physician!
Bring healing to my body,
Through ocean breezes.
 

###

E.B. Dreier is a disabled wife and step mother who loves literature of all kinds!  She lives in East Moline, IL. "I was born on Christmas Day.  I've had articles published, and a few poems that are under consideration. I am a member of Illinois State Poetry Society and the NFSPS."

---

The Passing

by

Grace Galton

A blood-red crescent
crowns the mountain top
silently stealing the night.

Silky-soft ether caresses
his face – ancient, leathered
and weathered by countless suns.
His closed eyes filter the new light
through almost translucent lids.
Withered arms remain outstretched
beseeching his spirit ancestors
to share Eternity with him.

The gentle breeze strengthens,
lifting and rummaging beneath
his cloak of aged buffalo hide
inquisitively fingering the
parchment skin stretched
drum tight over bones
as old as memory.

Motionless, he sits in trance
through many phases of the moon:
A shell from which all life
but breath has fled,
patiently awaiting
the Passing.

Suddenly and eagle soars,
its spirit whispering on the wind
a final answer to his chant.

###

 

Grace Galton is retired, widowed and loves writing, all word games, travel, family and photography

---

The Cafe
by

Amanda C. England

 

 

Silken strands of moonlight
twine about her hair-
lost, apprehensive,
she glances up as he enters the cafe.

This stolen sanctuary,
this tasteless cup before her,
fade in the light
radiating from his smile.
The room's dimness dissipates,
he illuminates the cobwebs
tangling her thoughts.

Suddenly, she's free to converse,
and yet, cannot form a thought.
Unable to explain this mysterious happening,
she simply sits,
stuttering a shy hello.

His grin lights up his weary face,
and colors her cheeks,
he sits beside her and orders,
lighting up a cigarette with her consent.
He sees her through different eyes.

She's still unsure of how to react,
but she finds herself beginning to unwind, now,
his presence is a tranquilizer,
his arm around her shoulder,
is a barrier against fear.

She takes another sip
of her lukewarm tea,
and smiles, tentatively.

Suddenly, she's beautiful.

He's taken by surprise,
he wasn't expecting this.
She unfolds in his embrace,
tiny, tightly guarded secrets
slip out, her tongue loosened.
His gaze is reassuring,
he places his troubles behind him,
and holds her as she unwinds...

She thaws in the warmth
of the fire in his soul.

###

Amanda England is a student in Hagerstown, MD where she is studying English Education.  She has recently had work published in 42 Magazine, The Houston Literary Review and The Hedge Apple.  She spends her (limited) free time reading and getting lost in the woods, yet she still manages to find her way home. This poem was previously Published in The Hedge Apple.

---

Waiting For A Phone Call

by

Jayme Kurland

 

 

Raindrops on a downward current
tumble away from home.
Each untold destiny hides in the clouds
waiting to be born from time.

Our earth holds the story of
every moment in its gut.
A rotating ball of elements in
black infinity with chaos on its palms.

Each speck of dirt honors
ancestors of silent cell’s unraveled paths.
The future is a creature all its own
with a beating heart and

cold shadowy breath.
Sitting on the deck
with the wind and trees
I can hear the wild energy

of movement towards survival:
Birds calling for mates
leaves swallowing sunlight
brilliant flowers with their nests of seeds.

I listen for a warning
but all that exists
is this seemingly eventless afternoon.
Far away, something happens to

someone else:
A waitress pours coffee and
her customer falls in love.
An old man takes his last breath.

A child picks dandelions and
scatters the seeds.
I watch the cloud pull a cloak
over its shoulders.

Both eyes are dark under a velvet hood.
I will use this moment as the
moment that it is:
Fertile and strong in the rolling hills of time.

Meanwhile, thunder rumbles close.

 

###

Jayme Kurland is a Social Worker living in Jamaica Plain, MA. "I've been writing poetry since elementary school... Poetry has become my connection with the internal and external world... with myself, with humanity, and with nature." 

---

The Sunset

by

Irena Pasvinter

 

The sun is falling
                          down,
                                  down -
A Cyclops's eye above the sea...
"Look, in a minute it will drown,
It's called a sunset, there, you see?"

My little daughter pays attention,
Stops endless digging in the sand,
Looks at the sun with strange tension,
Clutching a spade in tiny hand.

And now the sun has disappeared
With darkness creeping in its wake.
My daughter bursts with loud tears,
Yes, real tears - not a fake.

"Stop crying, dear!" I get down
And hug her gently. "What is wrong?"
"Mommy... The sun...The sun... It drowned!"
She chokes with terror, can't go on.

For heavens sake, what was I thinking?
My brains must have turned to dust...
"No, please don't cry! The sun is sleeping,
It will come back, it always does!"

She's crying less, the hope is planted,
But she is not at all convinced.
We, grownups, take all for granted,
The sun among the other things.

 

###

 

Irena Pasvinter earns living by software engineering and happiness by writing. She lives in Israel, her three kids make sure she has never a dull moment.

---

Girl With The Kaleidoscope Eyes

by

Samuel Quigley

Titan hair
adorning your face
burning ever so bright
shone like past suns

Peering into
your Kaleidoscope eyes
the world dances around me
in many different shapes and colors
showing me that which most cannot hope to see

Soft-pink
and yet so full and tempting
are your lips
which i can only hope to feel once more

Hourglass hips
a wish to kiss
from side to side


your body
The First Wonder Of My World
carved from a mixture
of Alabaster and Ivory
a trail worth traveling more that once
such curves and symmetry

###

Samuel Quigley was born on July 4th 1988 to a small family in Kenosha and is a WI Poet & Photographer.

---

Ripples

by

Candace Geary

A ripple radiates
across a once still pond,
the stagnant discontent
forever disturbed
by a single drop
of  empathy.


A smile curls
in the corners of a mouth
once hungry,
now satiated
by the spirit
of generosity. 


A child whispers 
her dreams in the ear
of  an uncertain future,
convinced now
by gentle reassurance.


An inner light glows
in eyes once dark with doubt,
now illuminated
by sweet hope


A soul expands
unable to contain within,
the intrinsic beauty
and sprawling nature
of empathy, generosity
reassurance and sweet hope.

###

Candice Geary lives in Ohio.  Her poems have appeared in  The Mused - BellaOnline Literary Review and as the feature poet in Cold Coffee Magazine.  Her article, Images of Africa, was recently published in The Medical Dealer Magazine.  In addition to writing, Candice enjoys travel, digital photography and pursuing humanitarian causes.

---

 

MARCH

 

Two From Tess Almendarez Lojacono

 

 

Air

He sacrificed His life
For us.
We casually acknowledge this
Looking at our watches
Wondering if the weather will hold for a round of golf,
Taking for granted a love too deep to contemplate,
So unfathomable we blush to say His name.

And yet,
He is the air we breathe
The food we eat
The warmth we feel when clasping hands.
Like spoiled children
We call on Him when we are in trouble
And spend the rest of our time demanding dessert before dinner.



I Am Here For You

I am here for you.
I knew there was a reason

since I was a little child, swinging
on the playground, looking

out over fields and forests,
deeply inhaling pines.

I longed for things to stay the same
and never to grow old.

But even then I realized
my childhood was fleeting;

each day marking a tiny change
so small it was not visible

and would not be until
years and years occurred

with changes, all piled
upon each other.

I await the purpose
that will sprout from

this mountain of change,
for me,

or you,
for everyone,

But mostly for
me and you.

---

The Spider

by

Candice Geary

 

Gentle spider
elicits awareness
of the reality
we have woven
into this web
of life.


Interconnecting
past, present and future,
every silken strand
the geometry
of creation,
as we weave
our destiny.

---

BECOMING A POEM

by

Charlotte Ann Zuzak

 

 

It has been so long since I have written,
since inspiration has touched me,
but I have been moved by the rough beauty
of Eire, in spite of the cold and rain.
I returned to the land which moved me
in a way I cannot describe on paper.  I can
only stand and observe the raw allure.
of green hills imbedded with craggy stone.

The music and stories which entertain
at the end of a day of hard labor,
a sharing of talent handed down by the bards
in the pubs where the whistle, the bodrhán, the
bagpipes and fiddles combine to create
a setting of the past as the dancing begins.

I surrender to feelings of pain and joy,
of the  present emerging from
anger, war and death.
I retreat to my beginnings, the land that formed me,
becoming part of a poem.

---

---

Three From Cherryl E. Garner

Lullaby

When my heart beat engulfs
and wakes me, so I can't breathe
up from the insistent Buford
Street dream, I zen out
to a roman garden on the
lip of a flat green sea.

I think, Jesus lay an agate stone
in the still blue pool.
The columns calm me.
Some arrested garden
raped or strewn on limestone
- even broken - says this real

stuff is not real.
It's too new. Only eras,
tons of years filter the few truths.
It's the air around you,
other planes and branes, ether,
atmosphere, orbits and trajectory,

meteor-sheared deep cosmos,
black moving stars, like what he saw.
Every other hitch and block
of faith is a hard way, but
I rock, like a child in a chair
to this other time.

Sanctified

I used to wait for just this kind of wind,
the one that blows the left leaves off,
their bracing branches, gray and
stuck close to their moaning trunks.

I’d fling my arms like I had wings
along the limestone, perched like
hawks designed to fly.  I could
correct that science just to pierce

the atmosphere beside them, eye-to-eye.
It’s cut from icy floes, from the arctic
blue/white sheets, at once a recitifier, sanctifier
better than reluctant river uncommitted

to its running, muddy way to go.
It razes every pore.  It dimples every spot of skin.
It slices me until I breathe in knives,
until I’m dried to one young husk.

 

A Prayer for Even Slim Faith, Faint Hope

With the faith in nothing are there even any ravaged
angels flanking your steel guard left, your clawed
arm right?  You know that when you jump from lofty
places, you are just a flapping, wingless bird.

Even our blue earth, bejeweled by rock pocks,
space-placed, seems from one perspective hung
from rocket windows in the big black done right,
all night, like all dark could roll around it.

Still, it’s really bigdipped.  It’s more roll
than pull.  There is no one without the other.
No pure zero without one.  No prayer without
the harness of faint hope, minus without plus.

---

Three From Don Ford

 

Like a Trusted Friend



For those times I felt forgotten
All alone, I stood my ground
I must admit I was afraid
Then suddenly your footsteps
Heard them walking all about

Heart of mine, it leapt so high
Overjoyed, you came at last
Promises you made to me
Envelop like a cloud of light

Linger long I pray of thee
Over stay your visitation
Volumes of my joy ascending
Eternal arms to me outstretched 


 This is an Acrostic poem that doesn't have to rhyme, but each letter to begin each line must combine to spell out a word or phrase. In this case Faith, Hope, and Love - the greatest of these being love.


Found Christmas



Twas the night before Christmas
And in our back yard
Sat a little blue wagon
Why would someone discard?

The wheels were well buried
In Winter’s fresh snowfall
Two kittens were sitting
And having a ball

And me in my scarf
And dad in his wool hat
We rescued those kittens
We brought them right back

Warmed by our fireplace
While drying their fur
The strangest of sounds
At out front door was heard

A jolly big man
Looking very well fed
“I see you found Christmas”
Was all that he said


Author Notes
Christmas is a year 'round adventure for some. The tree and lights stay up in many homes, thus signifying that the people who live there have the Christmas Spirit in their hearts every day of the year.

Wooden Boy (Part II) Escape


I want to be that wooden boy
I wish to have that life of ease
With strings to lift and pull me up
With no responsibilities

Some days I'm down - too tired to play
But as a toy and wooden boy
I'd just have fun and play all day
Games and puzzles I'd employ

Go ahead and string me up
It won't be a surprise to me
I'm looking forward to it
Somehow it is my destiny

The wooden boy - his great desire
To be a real child
But my desire above all else
To not be human for a while

I'm tired of all the pain and sadness
That life keeps handing to me
I'm ready to feel none of it
A wooden toy I want to be

So put me there upon the shelf
With other toys beside me
a place I can escape to
In the land I call carefree

I feel all funny down inside
The transformation's taking place
I don't regret the choice I made
No longer in the human race


Author Notes
My Wooden Boy Part II poem expresses some of the meaning I found in leaving my present station in life for a better world. Oh to be carefree of life - though life still brutally surrounds us. We need to vent at times and to dream as often. Yes, even the rain and the storms of life hold great meaning and pull at our hearts from different directions. I don't live in a bubble, but let your imagination put you in one once in a while. It's good for me. I can be a dead serious writer at times, and it may sound as though I am on the brink of death (for real). Or I can pitch my tent next to one full of kids and get to giggling right along with them. That's why I write some very silly stuff too. Our words live inside of us and once and a while we have to get them out and take them for a walk.

---

Two From E. B. Dreier

 

PRODUCE


The produce aisle
Looks like a beautiful rainbow.
Being there lets you know
God’s way is right.

The colors, the scents, the textures…
All obligate you somehow, to the truth
That yes, Mom was right too.

“Eat your vegetables.
Fruits are your friends.”
She told you how many times?
In one of those far off places of your brain,
You can still hear her say it.

Captured in a gelatin capsule –
“All the ‘Good for you’.
Trust us!  Take it every day.  We know!”

God and Mom.
Why does that sprinkler
Always wait for my sleeve?
Turn the corner – soup!



THE OCEAN
 

The ocean breezes
Blow my hair across my face
They leave me breathless.

My feet in the sand
Makes me feel free and alive.
The sand, is soothing.

The sky above me,
Is filled with beauty and peace.
The birds are winging.

I am happy here.
I feel joyful in this place.
I see God’s hand move.

Master Physician!
Bring healing to my body,
Through ocean breezes.

---

Three From Hannah Ritchie

 

The Memory Catcher

I’ve stored
our shared memories,
caught them
with a net,
trapped them
in a jar.


Filled it
with laughter
and
good times,
since you
can’t recall
them any more.


I release
our memories
one-by-one,
watch them flutter
to you
and pray
they’ll rekindle
our old, sweet days,
hope forgotten joys
will trickle back.


I see
your eyes flash
sparks of
recollection,
but only for a second,
before confusion’s return
and desperation
to find what’s lost
proves
your mind’s still
sadly bare.



The Art of Pretending

a wintry night
your
cigarette
a candle
in the
velvet dark


I almost mistook
the smoke
for your breath
imagined
the pain in your chest
was from the
frozen air


and as you
crumpled to
the ground
I wanted to believe
it was to feel
the snow
the numbing
of my heart
nothing more than
the cold



Race Against Time

My sister and I
would race,
bare feet
leaving tracks
in the sand.


She was
faster,
so a victory
was rare
for me.


Winner in life,
she also beat me
to the grave…
dying far too young,
leaving me to chase
her shadows.


I trace her footprints
in the sand,
not the only trail
she left behind,
for the impressions
she left upon me
leave me wondering
whether
I’ve won,
or lost.

 

---

 

February

 

 

The Decent of the Ordinary

by

Stephen Roo Williams


The street calls him back from the ledge
But the wide open nothingness of a fall
Rings true in his desiccate heart.
Unwanted, unloved, thrown away
He has only to sit, for one decision,
One deliberate move
Or then to hear and feel
“My grace is sufficient”
Not knowing or caring for the words
But turning away, to stumble on
Receiving back the world
Meant to crush him

Locked away, then, thrown against the bars
Like a bluebird with shattered wing
He sits with dull vacuous eyes,
To want nothing,
To feel nothing.
His pockmarked and tattered soul
Is turned too, Is felt out, Is fathomed, once again
A touch of light, bright soft words of lightness
Find him and are spoken:
“My grace is sufficient.”
Through tear stained eyes
And grimy clasped hands
A sinner’s prayer is made.

Born into pain
And nothing is born without pain
A long, perilous and winding road
Trodden through fields of gloom and despise
Walked regardless of switchbacks or alleyway dead ends
Fetches up finally upon crib’s open bough
Where a babies blue eyes, just like his,
Stare through to a man he does not yet know
The descent of the ordinary is stopped by love
What never was lost is found and known

Up through life and time, to stand
Words to break or heal and bind
Where once again he would have fled
But not to be led to abandon 
Those whose love has held him fast.
“My grace is sufficient,
My strength made perfect in your weakness”--GOD
The church letter-board proclaimed
To the heart of the matter, what’s said, what’s done.
To be made whole, to become a man,
By God, through wife and son.

 

---

He Doesn’t Mind

by

Marco Moreno Flores

He doesn’t mind if you think of Him
As a great light that engulfs the world
Or as a small bird that sits on your shoulder
Or as a hand that moves before you and clears your way
As long as you seek Him like a warrior seeks victory.

She doesn’t mind if you think of Her
As a mother’s lap that you sink into
When you sleep
Or as the songs of storms
Or as a face in the moon.
As long as you seek Her with open arms,
Like a child.

Art by Jennifer Trammel

---

Three From Roy Barnes

 

 

 

 

The Jog Back

 

Running into gusts…

The loud violence resists

my homeward progress

 

I’m without cover:

The Wyoming skies naked

(void of Cottonwoods)

 

My strength pushes west

against never-ending shrieks

-Nature’s wrath vanquished

 

  

Out of the Closet

 

My selected past

cocooned in an old shoebox:

dormant for seasons

 

Pins, clippings, letters

highlighting life spent earthbound

-Mem'ries to flutter

 

 

 A Respite in July

 

Standing, caught between

June’s drought and August’s swelter

-drenched by heavy rain

 

I meditate here-

My parched soul finds amnesty

from its dry season

 

---

 

  

 

 

 

 

---

January

 

Autumn Echoes        

by

Marilyn Terwilleger

 

 When Autumn leaves decide to waft and fall,
 my heart recalls the times of linen sighs
 when Summer held its breath before the stall
 and lilac days began their woeful cries.
 
 The lamp-less eve will cast its darkened cape
 across the honeyed path of suns delight
 and when the moon returns and light escapes,
 I’ll keep my dreams inside the restless night.
 
 The embers gloss and glow when Autumn sweeps
 a swath of rosy hues on ivied walls.
 The warmth of echoes left when sun held sleep,
 before it heard the lark and sparrow calls.
 
 Beneath the pulse of Winter’s vow to chill,
 I’ll wait the fragile days of light to spill.

---

 

Long Walk to Camp

by

Timothy W. Williams

The walk on the road to camp
was so long for a little boy
who spied Indians hiding behind
wrinkled grey tree trunks.
Cowboys in chaps, spurs,
cap guns cocked
tipped their hats to him
from across the stream. 
Fauns waited with smiles
behind mounds, fallen trees.  All
in the weald down the bank.

Creek water pure and clear
rippled musical notes
over cleansing rocks. 
Pebbles round,
colored clay-red,
yellow-white
distorted by swirling currents
winked up
at his curious eyes. 

Sun rays cooked green leaves,
fern fronds bathed in hot moist air
suspended beneath dark-green canopies.
Acrid earthy odors of loam
interlaced with aromas
of decayed brown leaves
lured, tugged at him
to turn, to enter.

A green truck slowly drew near. 
Moans, groans, creaking, aching springs,
became shrieks, screams as it rumbled by. 
He waved to the rider in the cab
high above dust and fumes,
who only stared ahead. 
The boy turned 
to find the forest
somber, quiet.

---

Hope Unsprung

by

Adam Hughes

Hope does not
spring; it must be
dug out of the frozen
ground – it lies dormant,
unannounced, beneath the
permafrost.

Hope does not
float; it is heavy and
sinks like the treasure
ship at Sutton Hoo,
left to be
discovered and valued
long after the mud
has dried.

Hope is not found
wild in nature;
it is cultivated, like
maize – some have
it and some don't.
Perhaps theirs is
the wrong kind of soil.

I hope for you.
I hope you don't break
my heart. I know
you will.
Still, I dig.

---

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.

---

Heartwood

by

Karen Kelsay

Lord, you are a sycamore upon a country path,
that stretches past the willow tree and braids long roots
together near the pond. I hear your song on lonely

summer days, while I garner little blue bells by the fence.
Your limbs drop curling leaves that cup with beads
of moisture on the bank, and call wild sparrows to your arms.

Your branches filter out the midday sun, while I lean
against your mossy trunk. My fingers trace your ancient
bark--defender of each inner ring of heartwood.

---

Cares

by

Michael Neal Morris

The dog sleeps at the foot of the bed on
a pile of dirty laundry. My wife snores
lightly under the ceiling fan. I read
until the words blur into the soon gone
day. I try to forget tomorrow’s chores,
and let sleep take me from the world of needs.

How do I forget you so easily,
Lord, when all that is worth remembering
was fueled by grace? Why is it a thousand
ways to die and vain wishes fortify
themselves in my mind which is slumbering
toward an unendurable Never Land?

God of the mind and energy and rest
make a way for peace to defend this nest.

---