Welcome

I Will Tell You

I will tell you what you long to hear

the earth is emboldened by the strength of your heart

the sky rejoices at the warmth of your spirit

we all need to be reminded of our beauty

and this

I will tell you

there’s nothing more to be done

no war worth winning

you were made worthy

this being who you are

learn what that means

who you are

this

I cannot tell you

only you can live into that truth

that secret inner gift

I patiently pray

you will tell me

all about

The Door of Awakening

I dreamed a

Door of Awakening

walking inside I awoke 

to my baby’s cry

the fifth time

in one night 

Will Boesl is a poet, songwriter, and spiritual director from Milwaukee. They hold a master's degree in Spiritual Formation from Episcopal Seminary of the Southwest and are passionate about the connection between spirituality and creativity. Recent writings have appeared in Soul by Southwest and Abbey of the Arts. 

Patience

Sentinel on chapel rock,

a lone fir,

reached through centuries

to fellow dwellers

beside lapping turquoise,

pine-scented, patient,

sacred communion. 

Human — 

will you? 

Bonded Raft

Alone with memories in moon's lustrous glow,

golden sheen enchants on water below.

Sticks tossed in sea -- long vanished from sight;

how I wish you were here to share this delight.

Friends passed on, children moved away;

I, a lone stick, recall our joyous days. 

George Chandy is a retired physician-scientist newly embarking on expression through poetry. His work grows out of his love of the natural world and its spiritual connection to us. His work has appeared in or will appear in Soul Forte, Dreamers Creative Writing, The Rush Magazine and Spirit Fire Review. His scientific studies are leading to treatments for autoimmune and neurological diseases.  

Lithograph

"Even stones have a love,

a love that seeks the ground"

— Meister Eckhart

The lilt of her voice traces

rounded outlines on a periwinkle blossom

soft azure blue of a June afternoon

His tone waves the air in sturdy

bends of bamboo flute and mournful

sprays of willow, clearing noonday clouds

that part the crystal drapes of weeping

rain and tempest squalls

Laughter twists and whorls

through interlacing fences

touching, knitting, purling,

weaving grass and silken floss

in curving angles, multiplying thirds

in harmonizing trines

The garden flows, then ebbs

dispersing sharpened leaves

and faintly susurrating petals

loop by loop, measure by measure

And like a grid, snaps effortlessly in place

etched upon the ancient trace of wind

imprint of a song I hear

whispering in the pellucid air

along the gravel pathway

encased in amber gems

and sound granitic stones

sealed and pulsing in the living warmth

of ageless tablets, captured time

Fulfillment

"An aim in life is the only fortune

worth finding"

— Robert Louis Stevenson

The old woman sat huddled

on a secluded park bench

and drew her shawl tightly

about her shoulders

as the first snowflakes

of the season began to fall.

‘Here you are,’ she cooed

to no one in particular,

pulling a crisp fortune cookie

from her threadbare pocket

and breaking it into little pieces.

She read the printed paper

prophecy and smiled.

A good time to finish up old tasks.

Soon, a solitary dove fluttered

from behind a bayberry bush

and strutted hesitantly towards her

down the gravel path.

‘Make a New Year’s wish, little friend,’

she said, gently tossing a handful of crumbs.

In no time, another dove cleared its throat,

clumsily approached it,

and began to puff its feathers

in a joyous dance.

‘You see how our prayers

are always answered in this world?’

she whispered to the pair.

Looking skywards,

she placed her trembling hand

over her heart and heaved a deep sigh.

‘Thank you, dear Lord, 

for always answering mine,’

her lips mouthed as she

wearily closed her eyes.

Post Mortem

"He who repents of having sinned

is almost innocent"

— Seneca

I drink from the chalice of late summer heat

where lines are plowed like endless rows of corn,

flies shed their winglike dust in the air

where the sun drops its ancient sheath of gold.

My eyes of glass can see no more

under a shrouded pall they flash

a hologram of dim-lit lines 

hewed deep within a block of stone, 

archival record-keepers of my score

of eighty years of earthbound sin.

What have I done, what have I missed,

what words of unsaid praise escaped my lips?

My mouth is parched from dried-up breath

that chokes congestive in my gorge.

They walk above. I hear their steps.

A crunch and blow, a footprint  

pressing on this caved-in chest.

Each holds a vision of my scorn.

The roar I moaned I could not hear

that plunged me into this abyss.

One works alone — I see her form

like mist under the granite sky

detaching weeds, untwisting vines

sweeping dead leaves, unsticking clods 

that soil the surface of my wounds. 

Her thoughts are those that tie

a chainlink thread that mends

an ashen soul that might have been.

Sacred Harp

A Haibun

He stood on the mountaintop 

with outstretched arms. 

“Lord,” he shouted, 

“forgive my transgressions!”

The wind took up his cry 

and carried it to the valley below. 

The people looked heavenwards 

and felt themselves enveloped 

by a gentle purifying song. 

But they heard nothing. 

Only the soft tears of rainfall.

        trapped under my heel

        the fragrance of crushed incense 

        rising upwards

Author of the debut novel Twelfth House and Shaded Pergola, a collection of short poetry with original illustrations, E. C. Traganas has published in 100+ literary magazines. She is a Juilliard-trained concert pianist and composer by profession, has held over forty nationally-curated exhibitions of her artwork, is founder/director of the NYC-based literary forum Woodside Writers, and Editor of The Woodside Review.  

Epiphany on the Cross

Blood-soaked devotion sanctified the cross. 

O Jesus, you wept--- not for your torment,

But for humanity’s ignorance of the Presence

Of God, pulsating within its shuttered heart.

Nailed by brutal hands upon the sacred crucifix,

Your heart agonized for all of humanity,

Crying out—"What have they done?”

Not in self-pity or personal pain,

But born of the horror of your epiphany:

That humanity had rejected the love of God.

“Why have they turned away from you, Father”?

You felt the darkness and cold rush of anguish,

Knowing humanity rejected your core teaching:

“The Kingdom of Heaven Lies Within.”

The Kingdom of Heaven--- the Divine spark that ignites

An infinite wellspring of love and compassion,

Binding humanity to God.

Without this recognition,

Humanity’s path would remain tortured, 

Scarred by hatred, despair and loneliness.

And so, you cried out in desperate love,

Aching for humanity to return home to God.

Infinite compassion moved your tears,

Until, mercifully,

Your soul rested in your Father’s arms.

We Hold the Key

Could we truly stand fully exposed before God,

Stripped of every pretense,

Fear and shame seeping like raw wounds?

Would we run for the hills,

Stand frozen in terror,

Or weep with joy at being released

From a lifetime of bondage?

Do not deceive yourself.

We are always naked before God.

We protect ourselves from over exposure

By clutching our clothes like armor,

While our souls want to strip down

And embrace God rapturously.

Souls have no inhibitions.

That is why we lock them

In darkened cells.

Unaware, we live like prison wardens,

Condemning joy and ecstasy 

To lifelong confinement.

Yet, every moment,

We hold the key.

My Father's Ballerina

Frozen at the entryway to our dining room,

I gazed longingly at my father’s ballerina. 

Only twelve, I stood enraptured,

Watching a beautiful woman dance ecstatically, 

Shimmering in blue, pink, red, gold and white watercolors, 

Meticulously brushed on a paint by numbers linen canvas.

I never knew my father could paint.

Desperately, I longed to step closer 

To the stunning apparition.

But I was not invited into the room.

Slowly, I ebbed away,

Allowing my father his sacred solitude,

While I drifted on a wave of loneliness and despair.

I never saw the ballerina again,

Except once, when I peeked inside his dresser’s middle drawer

To glimpse her beauty once more.

She still shimmered within that intimate cell.

“Why don’t you hang her in the den or living room?”

My mother and sisters occasionally mustered the courage

To ask my father this perilous question.

Urging him to surrender his privacy was fraught with danger.

His ballerina remained in darkness,

An act of desperation that imprisoned them both.

Often, I saw my father horrified,

Haunted by battle scenes that overwhelmed his defenses:

Young German soldiers scattered across the French countryside,

The aftermath of an American bombardment, 

As allied troops advanced.

This was the picture he shared with me,

His eyes pleading for forgiveness, tenderness,

Acceptance and absolution for the killing he had witnessed and done.

I failed to offer him the comfort he so desperately needed,

Caught in my fear and resentment of his PTSD- driven rage and criticism.

Yet, with killing fields racing through his mind,

My father still found the strength, the courage

To celebrate a woman of breathtaking beauty.

Unexpectedly, his ballerina revealed and touched 

The most tender part of his heart.

Unable to reconcile his rage and sorrow with her beauty,

He chose to protect her,

To keep her safe

Before he could destroy her.

With honor and great sacrifice,

He hid her in a quiet place,

Out of harm’s way, yet always near.

David Block is a poet and retired nonprofit executive director whose work explores themes of mysticism, spirituality, and the human search for divine connection. His recent poems draw from contemplative practice and devotion, seeking to illuminate the presence of God’s love in everyday life. His poetry was recently published in Soul Forte: A Journal for Spiritual Writing.

Hineni

I used to think they were different callings:

Mystic and prophet.

And I was happy in the silent glow of love.

Then God said

“Go, take that light and bless the world.”

And I said, “No thank you.

Send a prophet.

They are better at that.

I’ll keep the communion of solitude.”

And God sighed.

And I wrote prayers of insight and beauty,

And people said “Ah!”

“Ah, yes!”

And “Amen”.

Then God said

“Set my people free!”

And I said, “No, thank you.

Send a prophet.

They are better at that.

Let me see the liberation of my soul.”

And God sighed.

And I wrote poems of mystic grace

And kept them in a drawer.

Then God said,

“See, these words of mine must break and recreate the world.

Whose lips will give them voice?”

And I said,

“Send a prophet.

They are good at that.

Lord, can’t you see my own heart here:

Broken as the world.

I need all your words to make it whole.”

And God sighed.

And I searched the Scriptures

For glue to mend my heart,

And shared the glue

With those who showed their broken hearts to me.

And God said

“Love of mine,

Lift that heart to the light

And see it is the world,

Cracked and broken,

Bound together 

By a dictionary of stitches;

A whole skein of words.

“See my love:

Where words have bound

And words have loosed

Through all these golden stitches 

On your heart;

On the world.

“See, my darling one:

How cataracts of consecration

Flow through continents of care.

Do you see, my love?

Your heart is prophesy;

Your language is

                Darkness giving way to dawn,

                Captivity vanquished by compassion,

                Wounds balmed and bound.

“Your heart is creation

And your language is prophesy.

How can you not cry out?”

And I said,

“Here I am. Send me.” 

Routine Maintenance

I did it again.

I failed to relax properly on my day off.

The pressure of self-care

turns rest into work:

routine maintenance of the ministry machine

that might otherwise break down

and still might, anyway.

Routine maintenance, instead of 

                 unravelling the knots in my soul with

                                  wonder; or

                 floating in a moonlit lake of

                                   hope; or

                 dancing through radiance toward

                                   joy.

Without joy -- I can’t breathe.

With no hope -- I can’t serenade tomorrow.

No wonder -- I can’t rest.

So, take my hand, partner-God

and lead me not

to the workbench of recreation

but the dancefloor of re-creation. 

Kenosis 

I pick my way down the ravine

Not simply to descend

But to bring bandages 

                  And medicines

                  And bread and wine

To those knocked down

                  As lessons in humility

                  By teachers at the top

                  Who have, presumably, been edified.

And I refuse all offers of free passage

                  On rope bridges and cable cars

                  That bypass rocky loneliness beneath.

Why do I walk this path?

                 To be a hero?

                 Or to sink to lowest depth 

                                   So some kinetic kenotic trampoline 

                                   Will bounce me up to glory? 

                  Ha! God help me, no!

It is my path because it is the path my Lord has walked,

And because in this ravine lie fractured souls, 

                  In need of healing,

And because I also have been knocked down here

                  And know that

                  Healing comes from borrowed bandages 

                  Belonging to   

                  Companions on the way,

                  And not from supplies 

                  Thrown down from on high. 

And I descend because my God is God of Resurrection, so

                  God’s power is revealed in darkest place,

                  Where hope is lost and life

                  Is reaching out its one last feeble hand in prayer. 

Harrowing 

Light of the world, 

In darkest place 

You are most fully seen.

The cross has stamped your image 

On deepest sorrow

More than highest joy.

It is here we find you, 

Know you,

Join our heart to your heart, 

Our step to your step in common pilgrimage.

So, in this place,

One hand in yours

We take the hand of one other suffering soul,

If they might be so kind as to accept,

And we walk together

Slowly

Back to light.

But, like yours,

My hand will be slapped

And kicked

And spat upon.

Souls in hell take time to trust.

‘Keep moving, child’, you say.

Maybe another gentle soul will pass that way,

Another day,

Their hand also in yours,

For you have many,

And on that day, perhaps,

That soul that today

Has slapped and kicked and spat

Will grasp and rise and walk.

You do not hurry or demand

And nor will I.

‘Keep moving, child.’

So I keep offering grace

Until one that is ready

Lets us walk with them

You and I,

Just a few steps

Out of hell. 

An Anglican parish priest in Brisbane, Australia, Rev.  Dr. Margaret Wesley writes at the edgy intersection of prayer, poetry and liturgy. She completed a doctorate in John’s Gospel because she loves the way the author uses language to evoke God’s love. Margaret hopes to do the same in her small, fumbling way. 

I  Can’t  Contain

I turned and tossed,
recalling the last message
I sent in the name of “I,”
knowing how that brings disasters,
that me refused to be quiet.

In this deep unsettling,
this deep yearning,
I can’t contain this overflowing quest—
quest for your presence,
quest for your fragrance.

How many times must I return,
in tears and in this full‑chested ache,
to call out that one glance?
How shall I contain this wildness in me?

I raised my hands
in hopes of surrender,
in hopes of His mercy—
and awakened.

Perhaps what one can’t contain
was love in its pure form,
and that was His Mercy.

The Silence

In the darkness of night,
my heart reaches out for silence.

Yet, silence of another kind
makes my heart weep — silently.

I tell my heart,
“I am sorry, it’s me who opened this darkness to you.”

The heart responds,
“My love, when I weep it’s not for the darkness,
it’s for the light you placed in me
after long forgetting.”

We embraced — 
sinking into the darkness of silence,
calling the One, always watching,
for more Light to come.

Your Name  

When this longing became unbearable,
your name on my lips,
your name on my diary,
your name in my scribing.

Then my heart spoke:
perhaps this ache will ease
if the heart carries it.

I kneeled to the Lord,
gave Him your name,
and prayed,
“Oh all‑encompassing Lord,
take this longing away from me;
I can’t bear it no more.”

The voice came:
“Seek the name in your heart and turn to Me only.
When you see his name through My light, ease will come.
But do not turn away from this ache,
for through this love you may know My LOVE.”

Your name entered my heart,
and since then I carry it
with remembrance of the Lord
next to your name.

Rayila Maimaiti is a seeker of light, residing on Gadigal land (Sydney, Australia). An immigrant, an exile, an aunt, a sister, a daughter, and a cat mom, she is above all a lover of truth. Her work explores the intersections of human longing, spiritual awakening, and the quiet beauty of everyday life. 

When Will I Die? 

They say that some of us 

have a sense of knowing 

When it is that we are going 

To leave this earth

For, I am convinced that is

What we do

Not just because of scientific

Process but because I had 

A dream; yes that dream

In which I spoke face to face 

With a friend who had passed

Over several years before

Discussing why I wanted to

Leave my troubles behind

And that I could do so

Should I so choose

The very next day I experienced 

A near collision with an oncoming

Vehicle, in which I would have been

Severely injured or even killed

Once again, I had a choice and

I chose to stay

So things continued for me

Being told I had only months to live

Until I had what I considered to be

A very significant dream

One with my beloved mother

Who, in her own way was helping 

Me with my earthly work

And I felt truly supported as 

I had when she was here on earth

Somehow it made me realise 

Just how much I wished to stay here

Until my earthly work was done

And pray that this will continue 

When I journey to where my loved ones

Abide as I love it so much

For God gifts us all with talents 

And abilities we can use to help

Ourselves and others and that is what 

I intend to do; to continue to search

For those I can use for this purpose

When will I die?

I’d rather leave the answer 

To God, for He truly blesses

Us all in this life

So it is to Him I shall turn

In times of trouble and of strife

For after all, it was Him who

Gave me this life

Am I Right?

Am I right to go on loving you

Even when you are not here?

Am I right to hope against hope

That we will be together again someday?

When we can reach out and

Touch each other’s hands as we

Used to do as we cuddled each

Other in front of the T.V. eating

Our favourite brand of popcorn

Watching the most dramatic film

We could find? Oh, not to watch

A movie on my own again

Or to listen to the most exquisite

recording of Beethoven’s ninth

without tears cascading down 

My face

I don’t know if any of this is

Possible where you are now

But I shall think of you fondly

Until we resume the best

Relationship I’ve ever had

What a waste that we can’t

Sing together, dance together

Or can we?

Does our love cross the divide

Put there, perhaps only by mankind? 

For I feel your love, I sense it 

Some say it’s not real; I say, it is!

So I shall sing as though you can

Hear me and dance as though you 

Can see me and I will love you

Most ardently, because I really 

Believe we can love each other

Forever

Hope Paris Mendelssohn is a musician and author based in New Zealand, where the beauty of the landscape imbues her writing. Hope has won several prestigious music awards in composition and performance and has had her music and poetry recorded, published, performed, and broadcast internationally. 

Slack Tide at the End of the Street

Light thins, salt lifts. Branches net the circle.

Dusk holds.

A bird works the gutter, wing-wet,

counts bottlecaps along the seam.

Leaves keep a slow black pool.

A truck downshifts, quits.

Runoff pulls toward the grate.

Not ocean. The storm drain’s slack tide

noses my heels. I plant and measure

each taking, each release. Bars show, wet and square.

Grate rust, leaf rot, iron air,

bark grit on my tongue; my palm

stays on curb-rough rock.

A lace snags a bar. I feel the catch,

work it free, then hold,

knee shallow, grip sure.

Streetlight hums, the net hangs true.

Neighbors wheel their bins; lids clack.

The bird returns to the seam.

Cuffs wick to the knee. I let

the tug spend itself, read

the curb paint, the living stripe.

Between siphons, hush, then draw, then hush.

The stripe holds at my ankle,

bright enough to count.

Laundry at Low Tide

No wind, only light

rinsing the sea glass, the shore

working a washboard.

Lines tick, lines click.

A sheet rides the last swell,

folds itself true.

The eaves warm. Air

threads the louvers, quick

as a clothespin.

Spindrift salts the rafters,

last summer’s yellow snagged

again in the batting.

At the window we stand.

You tip your face, sluice it.

Look, you said. I did.

By noon the trees

shake down the smalls, leaves

and seed, a pocket’s worth.

One leaf slips under my lid.

I keep the sting on purpose,

longer than sense, wanting

the tide to fold me clean,

a wooden pin to hold, picking

from the sill the day’s lint,

sea glass greens my fingers.

The pane films salt, the slats

show the batting, light

rinses harder. I wipe once,

another fold appears, the hour

takes its crease

and sets the leaf there,

flat as a pressed receipt,

fixed to the bright.

Small Rings for Keeping

At eight I win a Coke, HAVE ANOTHER.

Boys close in. The red ring lifts the world.

I drop the bottle, glass seeds the weeds.

Sugar slicks my wrist, a loop

I can’t keep it on.

Years later on the river road, the dash blinking,

headlamps thread mist. An elk steps out,

draws a pale ring from the ford, shakes it.

Ripples slip from his knees, fold back.

Gravel hums us into shore.

On the coast a tow truck idles.

A whale shoulders up, stones roll.

We cut the six-pack ring at the mouth.

My hand bought that. The brittle tab

balances, bright, then clicks to rock.

Decades on, the ward. Disinfectant, soft shoes.

Nurses crease a sheet around a last body,

palms make corners, tuck the curve.

Outside, cicadas leave shells like bracelets.

I sign. A wristband circles back to my skin.

Lot dust lifts. Cars turn slow laps.

A key ring knocks my ankle, bright with grit,

ticks from pocket to pocket, keeping

what we drop, a small red world scuffed

but stubborn, circling near.

Kitchen Hinge

At the gate the hinge cries.

Ink opens a small green flower

on my page, then dries.

A cactus grazes a rag

and keeps quiet. The latch

finds itself, a clean click.

Inside, the door’s bright rub

holds to the jamb, paper-white.

Not a bloom, I say, only metal

making two rooms share an edge.

It swings. Street diesel threads

the air, then stills. A jar of olives

keeps its brine, the color steady,

the glass closes its lip.

Steam climbs the brass pot.

Salt works the tendon loose.

My mother tastes, adds parsley,

waits. Heat passes to a bowl.

Boots on the stair, a second

click answers the first.

I lift the bar and carry

the bowl to the table.

The spoon scores the rim,

a bright return line.

Steam beads on the hinge.

I eat. The door settles

back into its groove,

the metal keeping a little heat.

Sean Wang is a PhD student. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Cerasus Poetry Magazine, wildscape literary journal, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Pictura Journal, and Open: Journal of Arts & Letters (O:JA&L), where his work was selected for the Broadside Series, among others. 

Loving-kindness

Like a baby chick hatching

from the darkness of an egg,

the sun peaks over the hillside 

with newfound curiosity

for the day it will meet,

the lives it will touch

as it glides across the sky

to warm the creatures below.

And I wonder if I can also wake

up from the darkness of dreams, 

the yolk of primordial knowing 

to greet the day with similar interest—

a fierce tenderness that does not shy 

away from uncertainty, unpleasantness, 

but opens to the stings like a sunflower,

softening them in the sweet nectar of metta.*

*metta: In Buddhism, the Pali word for loving-kindness, a practice of cultivating universal goodwill, compassion, and friendliness towards oneself and others.

Up Close and Personal

She wanted to try Botox, coverup, Retin-A -- anything to hide the wrinkles around her eyes, villainous sign of aging. She also longed for ways of looking that would support the natural process, restore it to sacredness with beauty and meaningfulness.
 

Then she remembered how grandmother tree proudly carries her years in concentric rings of wooded embodiment, how mother lake plays with stone and wind, a deep laughter rippling to the surface as father sun proudly observes from above.
 

The wrinkles, like folds of sandy velvet draped around her brown moonstone eyes . . .
 

Why would she ever want to erase them?

Kaveri Patel is a family physician, meditation and art process facilitator, and poet. Her work has appeared in various literary spaces. Her deepest wish is for an unencumbered heart to be a safe place for others. Learn more and reach out at www.wisdominwaves.com.

An Encounter with Raven 

Azure blue masks the veil,
a shadowy figure clings to the rail
along my cycle trail.

Dust rises—
alluring, a summit.

A Raven, jet black,
potent,
beak parted,
loose breath.

Pulsating with primal force,
looming,
catching the light,
feathers unfurling into flight.

Shapeshifter—
once human,
in the blink of an eye.

What did you carry into the sky?

A Dance of Becoming

oh hello there,
 you whimsical thing,
 spidery legs dancing mid-air,
 dear, miraculous being.

are you aware
 a sudden loose limb
 could bring despair?

what holds you
 so steady, so strong,
 so assured?

I cannot see
 what you seem to know—
 as above, so below.

playfully bouncing
 in boundless blue skies,
 did you know,
 I could have so easily
 walked into you?

eloquently,
 you captivated me;
 my feet barefoot,
 rooted in the earth.

your nimble limbs
 blow wild and free;
 an invisible string
 interwinds you and me.

in this moment—
 you, so breathtakingly
 being you,
 and I, learning to be.

your grace,
 graced me.

Laura Battley walks a shamanic path, responding to subtle mysteries emerging from nature through flow painting and writing, attuning to the earth’s resonance. An art psychotherapist for over twenty years, she blends mind, body, and soul practices, runs Awen Holistics, lectures in psychotherapy, and embraces lifelong learning and authentic living. 

Holding It All

There seems a Great Something enfolding all this

The living, the dying, the suffering, the bliss

A deep Loving Presence holding it all

Merged with our essence and always on call

Holding it all

Holding it all

A deep Loving Presence holding it all

The beauty, the pain, the joy, the regret

The hopes, the fears, the longings unmet

The triumphs, the losses, the times of free fall

A deep Loving Presence holding it all

Holding it all

Holding it all

A deep Loving Presence holding it all

All of the past and all of today

All of tomorrow, come what may

In winter and spring, summer and fall

A deep Loving Presence holding it all

Holding it all

Holding it all

My Lord and my God, you are holding it ALL

Taming My Inner Critic

I lose my true poise when this critical voice

judges every thing that I do.

Not just what I do, but what I think and say too!

NOTHING escapes its critical view.

She’s both the judge and the jury and is in quite a hurry

to convict me without a defense.

Whatever I state is too little, too late,

cuz she’s on to the next offense.

So what’ll I do? I sure haven’t a clue

how to deal with the Critic’s complaints.

She lacks in compassion, treating me in this fashion.

Her methods are crude and frankly downright rude.

I know I’m no saint, but does the picture she’d paint

really capture the whole of the truth?

She doesn’t help me improve, just creates a bad mood.

It’s time to give the Critic the boot!

To change things for the better, here’s a Dear Jane letter

to tell her the new lay of the land:

“Someone new’s in command and she’s taken my hand.

Her name is Compassion and she understands.

She’s wise and she’s kind and she shows heart and mind

what is needed without blame or shame.

If you’ve something to say, best to send it her way,

Otherwise it’s goodbye and GOOD DAY!”

Formerly a systems analyst for thirty-five years, Lynn Tanny now lives in a Florida nursing home, where she’s determined to not just survive, but when possible, thrive. In addition to Issue 8 of Soul Forte, her poetry is also published in the U.K.-based Lighten Up Online journal. 

Holy Ground

When Moses says to God

Who am I to do this thing?

God answers, I am with you.

God has already told Moses

That he is standing on holy ground.

But Moses keeps asking questions

Who are you then?

The answer he got

Might have been 

I am becoming what I am becoming 

My priest told us in her

Sermon on Sunday.

What I am becoming

Like a flowing river. 

What’s here to learn, I wonder. 

Barbara Brown Taylor calls the ground

We walk on thick with divine possibility

So this ground, this shaky, unsteady

Place in the wilderness is holy ground.

It feels barren, inhospitable

As if one must constantly be on guard

Danger lurking around every corner

What if it’s all holy ground?

If a dentist’s chair can become a 

Sacred space because surrender

Slowly washed down my limbs as the psalm in

My head grew louder than the whirring drill

Then surely this regular day

With its spiky anxiety and dull dread

Is also holy in its own right

What’s here to learn I ask and

The question turns torments demands

Then becomes something new–

What’s here to love? 

Sunshine, a sleeping dog at my feet, 

A tree pink with bloom

Bright daffodils, a clear cold creek. 

That’s the question 

What’s to love? 

Reference

Taylor, B. B. (2009). An Altar in the World. Canterbury Press.

Real ID

Fueled by rage I run faster 

Than usual along my usual route 

Fresh from a phone call

With my oldest son–

A newly minted lawyer

Facing the Bar between

Wedding and honeymoon–

Wanting to help a friend:

His fiancee’s bridesman was

Unable to get a real ID, 

Treated to typical derision for 

His real ID which the state of

Tennessee believes is theirs

To determine.

What makes humans mean,

My fury asks and my muscles burn

I pound along the creek’s edge past 

The bridge, the bamboo, and the 

Splayed bleeding squirrel–then

Abrupt stop–a line of cars has

Halted ahead as a woman walks with

Purpose toward something in the road

Picks it up, and sets it down on the 

Other side in the grass

The line of cars makes its way past me

I spot the small creature, a turtle

Head and legs tucked inside 

I hope its internal navigation system

Points it toward the woods 

Rather than back to the road

For now this small living thing

Has been gently protected by 

A human who held up 

Morning traffic for a turtle

I have named humanity mean but

I must include generosity

As part of our real ID. 

Songs of Deliverance

How does a song of deliverance sound?

Like the voice of my Aunt Emmaline, telling me it’s okay 

That I’m still not the best with boundaries because I’m afraid

Of not giving everyone I love everything they want 

Scared I’ll disappear, cease to exist from lack of use

Listen, honey, she would say in her fourth-grade teacher read-aloud voice

You don’t have to have it down yet, even at your age, you can just 

Take the babiest of steps, bird by bird -- she loved to watch the goldfinches --

You’ll get there in your own time, doesn’t have to be today, it’ll keep

How does a song of deliverance sound?

Like the voice of my priest saying, you did your best, I know you did:

All those stories you read and told them, the hymns and showtunes you sang

The letters you drew on their backs, the sight words you practiced, the costumes you made, 

the creeks you waded and crawfish you caught, it matters more than you know

You are forgiven for the yelling and shaming and crying, she would say, in her pulpit voice, 

Your sins are cast as far as the east is from the west, in Christ you are a new creation

It’s never too late, you’re never too lost, God makes a way from no way

Streams in the desert, water for parched earth, dry bones can rise and dance

How does a song of deliverance sound?

Like the sound of a backpack I’ve worn for years thudding to the ground

the earth absorbing the weight of a hundred stones, names I heard them call me 

then learned to call myself: Too much, not enough, selfish, careless

And all the shoulds: should have known better, should have known more

Like the sound of a kind grandfather’s voice saying with conviction:

Nothing but infinite love ever has the authority to name you 

And as I scatter those stones, no longer mine to carry

My weightless shoulders shake with laughter.

Notes

Inspiration comes from Jim Finley, who says that only the infinite love of God has the authority to name us; and from Anne Lamott for the phrase Bird by Bird. 

Michelle Hasty is an education professor in Tennessee. Her academic writing has been published in literacy journals, such as Voices from the Middle and The Reading Teacher. Her short story “Prone to Wander” was published in the Dillydoun Daily Review. Her poem “Overheard, an offering” was published in Bluebird Word. 

The Altar

In the middle of nowhere, i built an altar to You

because in the middle of my ashes, you built a life for me.

In the canyon alone there, i wrote a song to You

because in the middle of my chaos, You wrote the music for me

You took the broken pieces of my world

and built all i am now.

I heard cacophony, in the void i swirled

You brought symphony as i was hurled

through this space and time that we call life,

a flower bloomed within the fight

and i stopped there, to my knees i fell

built an alter where You touched my hair

I saw the birds and i heard the bees

and i felt Your breath moving through the trees

and i felt the gift enter me there

fill my countenance, left my soul bare

and weak and strong were made one then

I was all and nothing, much like the wind

and the sounds and smells and sights and feels

and i couldn’t tell whether it was real.

But I know You’re here in the space between

the breeze that i feel and the place i can lean

so i built the altar to remember the day

You met me in nowhere, just to sing, dance and play

Let the Salt Air Keep Me

My heart is broken.

I’ve got nothing left to give.

My soul is hurting.

I’ve got nowhere left to live.

My light is dark now.

I’ve got no way to reignite.

I am so weary.

I’ve been left without fight. 

And now You ask me 

To walk on one more mile.

When I am broken. 

When I don’t have strength to smile.

I’m not sure You see

I’ve given all that I have.

And I am dust now.

Wounds too deep for any salve. 

But I won’t quit. 

No, I won’t stop now. 

I believe I’ll just sit.

Take my hand off the plow. 

I’ll just rest

Until healed and restored.

I’ll sit on the beach,

Watch gulls and pelicans soar. 

Maybe a miracle will happen in me.

Or maybe I’ll leave here and be set free.

Or maybe I’ll sit myself in the sand,

My feet in the waves, no pain in my hands. 

Let the surf carry my broken away. 

Let the salt air keep me, maybe here I can stay. 

Cassie Patzig is married and a mother of four. She is a veteran combat medic. She holds a master’s degree in occupational therapy, and she is a self-employed therapist. Cassie has been writing poetry/prose all her life, most of it spiritual. Her writing is honest and reflects more firsthand spiritual experience than theology or philosophy. 

The Bill is Presented

In spite of everything,

I believe in something;

I believe in one thing –

No right comes from a wrong thing.

Which is one way of saying:

Be we preaching or praying,

Softly cooing or braying,

At home or off straying,

That the Truth isn’t bluffing.

 Be we starving or stuffing,

Or stumbling or strutting,

Or joyfully rutting

With strangers in bed,

All too easily led –

Or blaming our stars,

Or brawling in bars,

Or licking the honey,

Or lying for money,

Or lynching for hate,

Or traducing the state

With an unholy relish

No cause can embellish –

Though quick to reform

Just as breaks the cold dawn –

Still the bill is presented,

Howsoever resented.

And only a clod

Wouldn’t call the bill God.

God Shines in the World

God shines in the world,

Suffusing all nature:

So She’s coral, and cosmos,

And the milk in the udder,

And the bird in the poplar;

And She’s pain, and the essence

Of every rich feeling,

Such as love, and love’s leaving,

And rage, and what softens

Our rage into weeping.

O but if we should miss her!

O and if we should miss her! –

Then we’ll fall through the dark,

Through the caverns of grief;

While Cold like a cat

Caresses itself.

Nick Hayward took a BA in English from Queen’s University, Belfast. He worked mainly in
the City of London. Retired to the Loire Valley in France, he composed poetry to help clarify
his spiritual beliefs. These pieces are from the resultant book-manuscript, “Glimpses of God.”
He now lives in West Cumbria, UK.  

The Burden

The morning breeze does not

lift the heaviness I feel

this Sunday morning.

I don’t know if Sundays

don’t hold an inherent

heaviness -- the marred 

divine-and-human,

the regrets remembered

to forget. The way church

music glides into the soul

of the blues. The tear-streaked

face of worship --

that ultimate form of hope

seeking grace and love

wheresoever the congregants

of life looks. The breeze moves

the leaves and I hear,

The Old Rugged Cross.

Byron Hoot has published poems in The Watershed Journal, Tobeco Literary Arts Journal, North/South Appalachia, Tiny Seed, Route 1, Adelaide Press, Rune, Keystone: An Anthology of Pennsylvania Poets, Pine Mountain, Sand and Gravel Anthology, Vox Populi, The Bridge Lit Journal, and Passager. Byron's work was named a winner of Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge in 2022. Byron co-founded The Tamarack Writers in 1974.

Author’s Note for A Late Summer’s Dirge 

This poem adopts a psalm-like cadence, tracing a journey from birth under burden through longing, temptation, toil, and judgment to a final farewell. Yet the farewell is not the end: beyond absence, something more waits to be revealed.

A Late Summer’s Dirge

Love, with heavy heart I was born—
With torrent from fissure deep,
The river ever runs, never fills,
Containing sighs too deep to speak.

Your flame flickers in warm frames,
As silent hearts seek their claim.
Mine, Love, to and fro it trills,
A lonely lament without name.

These dreams dart and disappear,
Reeling rapid to the Sun's yawn.
Will yours, cruel Love, join the thrills
That dissolve in cold dark dawn?

A sharp chill wind from barren pines,
Patient, you’ve menaced my trail—
A starved jackal stalks these hills,
Seeking a lone heart to eat its fill.

Dust that rises, dust that falls,
Wages paid, Love, yet we toil so.
Ever yearning for our fill,
Ever seeking to be known.

Deceiver, veiled and concealed—
Heaps of coal in my darkened stove.
Our hearts pour out a bitter swill,
For the ever new, ever old.

Aye, all shall see, and all shall know—
In time’s eternal lines abide.
The ancient ledger calls its bill,
And there in dust my name lies signed.

Love, into deep mist you recede.

Chadwick Rowland is a Catholic writer and attorney based in Washington, D.C. A recent convert, he writes at the intersection of longing, memory, and grace. His poetry is shaped by pilgrimage, silence, and surrender. 

Gift

Life is a gift

open it slow

because the surprise

will come fast

Brandon Hunt, Jr. is a writer, student, and athlete in Washington, DC. Brandon always finds a way to reach his goals. Sometimes he's full of energy. Other times he's in his own world. Brandon knows not to take his gift of life for granted and mistake it for a present, because the present always turns into the past.