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
(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
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

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

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.