Welcome

the stars inside

i am a creature

born of wonder

spreading the line 

through indigo seas,

three sides;

i’ll hold

this lens 

of silver light

don’t tell me i’m dreaming, 

i have smiled

across cosmic cloud forms, 

myriad and wild

soft and safe inside

the great plain beating

the cusp 

of one heart

i know myself,

surprised

i’ll show myself,

unformed

beg, don’t let me forget

to the stars inside.

we weep dark tears

under this moon i make

the discovery; i am born

of beginnings. 

long i’ve lingered

beneath the dark stars,

reforming

every dream

in my heart, unsoldiered,

collapsed,

as nothing. don’t recoil –

the dry dust

can only defile

this thing you 

think you are. are not,

don’t wait on me

i’m flying 

under a new moon,

born blind;

the stars

are within everything.

while we weep

dark tears,

shed our skin

a thousand times

the moon is growing

fat and full,

carry us on

in the ripening

of time, swelling wide

with you

unbroken face

under the rainbow

of night.

this earth

lifts up 

everyone, 

new as eggs,

like you

bones full, heart smiling;

we’re recycling sunlight.

Miranda Ruth Gill is a poet and meditation guide recovering from a decade of chronic illness, during which she often lived bedbound, in isolation. As identity dissolved away, she discovered a portal to wild adventures of a different kind; those of the ever-present and always expanding soul.

the golden daughter’s shadow work

my fantasy                  was persephone, gathering bouquets 

of narcissus flowers, lemonade yellow with trumpet-coronas, 

passively ambitious and entitled among girlish lilies and violet possibilities

the reality                     forced me to dirt torn by obsidian horses, 

petals scattered through sulphuric winds, 

the god’s fingers ripping blossoms from my manicured hand 

the truth                        lives beneath the daffodils of my mother’s lawn, 

below worm tunnels in the bottomless shadowlands 

of mud and bad dreams with serpentine dogs smacking their lips, 

the white picket fence floating down the river styx

the fates                        demanded the fall, 

tawny blooms wilting brown,

frost zapping lilacs, 

disintegration of a glossy future

the victim                      in me, wants to curse the gods, 

but blame never cures reality. young, hungry lips bit red fruit, 

the flower child married the underworld king

and now i live in a world of certain winter

my hope                         roots itself in the ancient play of patterns—

the lattice structure of underground crystals, 

the sapling’s imprint within the seed, 

fractals of branches in my lungs

and the trees, the resurrected

scent of spring

mixed breed

i am mammal and angel

the howl and the moon

the whimper and snarl

the lick and the wound

i am mammal and angel

the alpha and runt

the treat and the trick

the hunger and hunt

i am mammal and angel

the saint and the hound

the bone and the heart

the lost and the found

at the edge of the sea

                       after Mary Oliver’s “Breakage”

the evening before the floodwaters swelled,

                 the hibiscus trembled, the crepe myrtle sighed,

the white bird found shelter beneath swaying branches,

                 the surface of the deep rumbled a prophecy,

but i could not smell the threat of rain.

when i sank into a deluge of biblical proportions,

                 a squall whipped through my psyche—

a whirlpool of black, brackish seas. 

                 the lord of creation and the lord of destruction 

swirled and cracked lines in my mind.

                 lightning flashed through dilated eyes.

in the hospital cube, it was hard to tease out

                 nurses from angels, the mad from the mystic,

the parasitic from the pearls of wisdom.

on the shoreline of memory, a thousand weeks later,

                 i meander through pieces that lived in the depths—

scarred mussels, tattered periwinkle, a split ashen oyster.

                 the waves splash my feet in syncopated rhythms,

the sky scatters clouds—charcoal, opal 

then kaleidoscopic. no one can hold the ocean within her hands

                 so i pick up one fragile shell at a time, 

run my fingers across its ridges and bumps

                 as the winds play with the grays in my hair.

bearing the light

                 you're covered in roses, you're covered in ruin, you're covered in secrets.

                 —Patty Griffin, “Mary”

mary, mary, i wake early again

               pregnant with questions

empty of answers

                how do you hold it all in your heart? 

mother of sorrows, i wait for the clarity free from language

                 like the garden breathing the first rose of spring

beads of dew on may’s green

                 but here i am covered in gray sheets and blankets 

of midwinter thinking, leviathan weight 

                 from yesterday’s headlines

mary, mary, how do you bear the light 

                 in a world of static and smoke

plastic screens and cracked prophecies?

                  beyond the glass

                  past smudges and cracks

                  the swallows praise air 

                  with hymns of their wings

mary, mary, teach me melodies born of sky and ruin

                  the cadence of feathers 

                                   and a magnified soul

mary, i will learn to be silent

                mary, i will learn to sing

Claire Haynsworth Coenen is a writer and teacher living in Nashville, Tennessee. Her work has appeared in several publications including ONE ART, Sky Island Journal, and Salvation South. Her first book of poems, The Beautiful Keeps Breathing (Kelsay Books), was published in June 2024. 

Bats at Dusk

Unplanned paths can be

fruitful, darting through the sky, 

diving and dipping and nabbing 

countless biting bugs and buzzing flies.  

Mapping their flight is a model 

of mayhem - every which-a-way, 

up and down, arriving nowhere but 

always following the next sound. 

To embrace that life! To cease 

planning and be so bat-like, 

jaunting and jerking and seemingly 

silly in flight, so erratically 

perfect we could be, so many 

mammals soaring through the trees. 

Under the Oaks at Pisgah Inn 

"A smile is seen on every leaf"

-Tchih Nhat Hahn

Grinning oaks gazing

down, beaming leaves

rustling in the breeze. 

Picnickers munch chips,

open cans, make plans in 

earshot, but only just. 

Clouds above the ridge

almost drown them out

as their talk turns to 

real estate, then stops. 

Maybe they see it, too, 

gazing at the clouds 

hovering on the ridge, 

basking in the leaves

smiling up above, 

beatific boughs 

dazzling with love. 

Gene Hyde's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as Salvation South, Appalachian Journal, San Antonio Review, The Banyan Review, Third Wednesday, Raven's Perch, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina with his partner and a scruffy little dog. 

Why We Shine So Bright

​Come into the light. We want to see all of you. Are you trembling? We are trembling too. It’s true we are angels, but our task is to suffer with you. We have been suffering for a long time, which is why we shine so bright. We use all of our suffering. Not a morsel goes to waste. That way, when you cry out, we cry out with you. That way when you weep, we weep with you. This is how we heal together. From the sorrow of the world, which is our sorrow too. We have been sitting with this sorrow for eons. Holding it in our hands, drawing it closer. Sometimes we sing a song to sorrow. Would you like to sing along? It will be more beautiful if you join in. At the bottom of the sorrow, we find the light. It is beyond anything you have ever experienced. But you know this light very well. For this light—it came from you.

Luminous

Let the light soak through your wounds. I know you are frightened of healing—of what it could ask of you. But it asks nothing at all. You were not made to suffer, though you have learned to do it well. Now all you have to do is forget everything you have learned, so that you can remember 

to let your wounds soak the light.

The Circle

The circle gathers us in its arms, we who have been suffering for so long. There is no need to call it an entry, for we never really left. But it is the greatest joy to return. We look at our hands, then our eyes. The suffering that has gathered, it has been fierce. And we are tired from our long journey into the center. It's okay to weep and to mourn, we need all the love we can get. And the place in us that is desperate is most blessed. 

Carol Krause is a poet whose uncontainable mind often disrupts her plans. Sometimes this results in joy. Her writing has appeared in Augur, Arc Poetry, and Room, among other outlets. Carol’s debut poetry collection, A Bouquet of Glass, is published by Guernica Editions. 

Shards of Self

It fell from the sky – the self – 

into the alien world

of living in the flesh,

and like a mirror, it shattered

with the sound of thunder,

into a myriad of shards

scattered randomly

across the ever-expanding 

and ever-interlacing planes

of the universe. 

She pulled herself up

from drowning 

in her own blood and brokenness,

and chose to relentlessly hunt,

one by one,

the peppered fragments – 

each showing

a distorted reflection of her – 

and piece them back into a whole,

a coherent image of what she is,

in her perfect imperfection. 

Turning Inside Out

She knelt and picked up

her inner child, 

limp in her arms, 

left lifeless on the ground,

in the rain and the cold,

so tiny and starved, 

shapeless, disfigured by wounds,

preyed on by vultures and crows.

She felt swords pierce her heart

as she witnessed

her young self, abandoned,

in a random spot nobody knew,

a no one, an orphan, 

defeated, yet still hanging on,

waiting for the one ray of sun

that breaks from time to time

through thick, grey clouds.

“Forgive me,” she whispered in her ear,

“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.”

Tears began to pour,

forming a river of tears,

that flow toward the sea 

where the pain of childhood wounds 

is emptied. 

A Primordial Wound Shard

She entered reluctantly 

into some obscure, shapeless cosmos – 

a womb with an irregular shape,

like a cave still forming, 

or the innards of a cocoon,

throbbing as it weaves

more layers on top of what lies beneath – 

a something unnamable. 

She advanced through the cavity’s chambers,

removing cobweb after cobweb,

unraveling as snowy threads of lace.

Her vision adjusted to the dim ghostlight,

but the silence was deafening – 

a space with mute sounds, 

like cries and screams imprinted

on the everchanging fabric of the walls.

She reached a crushingly immense hollow – 

the core of the womb – 

and there, the heart rose to the ceiling,

pierced by a shard through her rib – 

pale crumbs of love that couldn’t soothe 

her longing for gentle warmth.

“I am giving you permission.”

The wound, oozing – 

a deformed, incoherent mass, 

covering the heart on all sides,

like a cage of unhealed scars – 

gathered the strength to murmur:

“I am giving permission for us 

to find peace,

despite our longing and pain, 

for I see, I can see the light of grace 

pouring from the heavens.” 

She reached deep within, 

beneath a black moon’s veil,

and pulled out the shard, soaked in blood

from the festering, 

primordial wound of the heart,

and both cried, holding each other tightly 

in a divine embrace.

A Little Ether Shard

What we know fades 

to something trivial and insignificant 

into the infinity of all there is,

seen and unseen – 

not because it is oblivion per se, 

but because we can’t see beyond,

a beyond we can’t even name –

in comparison 

to the incommensurate magnitude

of what we don’t know. 

And then,

the question remains:

shall I not pray for guidance

to hold onto my light

and walk the path meant for me? 

I am but a trivial and insignificant shard

of a whole infinitely larger than myself.

I shall pray,

I shall trust,

I shall love.

Cleopatra Sorina Iliescu lives in Atlanta with her two sons. She holds a doctorate in education and is the author of four poetry collections. In her current series, "Peppered Shards of Self," she seeks to gather the scattered pieces of our soul – shards filled with pain but also hope – to embrace who we are in all our imperfections and honor our divine essence. 

My mania tells me; she’s divine 

I’m doing her a favor

Leading her to knowledge 

Stripping her of her sins 

Let the thorns pierce her skin,

So she can suffer — 

The only way she can ever empathize—

With Christ. 

As I take her to the forbidden place

The secret garden. 

Let her blood cleanse the path. 

Use her feet to find the way

Into murky water, 

I will test her knowledge; 

Scripture says we must go through the waters, 

and with this infinite knowledge 

Which is sanctified by the Holy Ghost. 

I will obey. 

Is that what you think is going on?

How sure are you? 

I know she will leads us to the 

Promise Land—

Eden’s garden. 

So my mania speaks for me. 

I will take her under 

She can barely tread the calm waters 

But it must be done.

I must put her on trial

To strengthen her faith 

And hope that I can wash away her guilt 

For she was a sinner before I came along. 

I need to show her my ways, 

infect her with thy holiness 

Ordain her to be a child of God 

To cleanse the soul. 

I am a divine spirit not to be confused as a mad sprite 

I know how it must look, 

they say I’m endangering her 

But this is a holy risk

For I know, 

This is nothing compared to Hades inferno. 

As he hungers on power

For every passing hour 

Longing for eternal days 

Never will she know peace 

Only the heat of her own hell

*** 

I was sent to save her.

I saw her struggles, 

no one knows her the way I do. 

No one can bless her as I do 

With the gifts I desire for her. 

But she fights me, 

thinks of me as a monster, 

A demon sent to infect her mind. 

But why? 

All I ever did was care for her. 

How does she distort her own reality? 

Why won’t she see the truth? 

I am her saving grace, 

her only chance for living 

Eternal lifetimes 

But doubt fills her mind. 

Why won’t she hear my truth? 

I would never harm her 

I am holy. 

Why would I lie? 

What would I gain? 

If only just her soul. 

One day I will call her 

And then she must decide: 

If I’m honest or if it’s all in her mind. 

Karen I. Sorto is a Salvadoran-American poet and emerging social worker whose work explores faith, bipolar disorder, and cultural identity. Her poems examine the sacred within mental illness and the divine within human frailty. Her poem “Why I Lit a Candle Even When God Wasn’t Listening” was featured on a mental-health website, and she is completing her manuscript "Love Songs for the Unstable: A Prayerbook." 

Breath

I’m glad for yesterday.

I needed the river,

but it has done fine

without me.

An empty cathedral

silently passes.

Perhaps, it is

what we used to be

this wet earth

of sterile sand,

with a tree’s

dead and shiny limbs

stretching-up

from the gut

of a silt-free river

to end

its beautiful life

in purified waters.

Mark B. Hamilton (MFA, University of Montana) is an eco-poet and scholar of pre-industrial America. His work focuses upon the environment and the poetics of change. An eighth poetry collection title, "1803: The Wintering," a history-based volume of traditional verse, will be released in February 2026. 

Maybe Poem

Maybe ocean now and maybe river, maybe Fall-Down-Moses in the middle of a brightly lit Meijer’s and fellow shoppers aghast and amazed at such a hangdog and ragged display as if to bring down clouds of mercy, maybe tiny stream leading to a living heart beat in deep accord with all that lives and breathes and maybe Emily’s beloved dashes lighting up sheets of place and maybe sparks from a campfire with my brothers on Isle Royal years ago and a lone wolf howling deep in the night that shall always remain a forlorn form of saying forever and never again—and maybe beyond there’s a field and I will meet you there as in a Rumi poem where we talk about the mysteries of love and loss until dawn and arrive nowhere near close to understanding though the cherishing communion builds like a rising tide of sobs in our throats—and maybe brief pin pricks of pity for all the roadkill here in central Michigan punctuating the sides of 46 in torn bodies with crazed eyeballs staring at the sky—and maybe pond or puddle or runnel of coffee down a khaki pant leg circa the late nineties in Styrofoam hysteria, maybe sculpted dunes of cheekbones fit for a valley of personal and heretofore cosmic tears, maybe the end of the world and the last tattered pizza box from Little Caesars subbing for true nourishment for the very last time, maybe heartbreak again and again in order to expand the heart’s aching circumference which is meant to embrace the whole world, maybe snow then rain then snow again in alternate states of rapt becoming—and maybe how to walk away from a poem in the middle of writing it in order to let the poem breathe and become its own personal bird (but now it’s time to come back), maybe Janis singing Maybe in her one and only appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show in a beautiful aching voice loved forever, maybe a few grains of wonder and gratitude three minutes before dawn, a lit-up countdown that never gets old, maybe a prayer after all from my own coffee-tinted breath and maybe, just maybe something like thanksgiving and a hushed sigh of wonder that all I have to do for the rest of my life is love with a washed away heart glad to be here for a little while before my pony breaks down and my soul is set free to love everyone and everything with no discrimination whatsoever so come what is and come who may as if we are singing maybe together in Rumi’s field and holding hands before we skip out into eternity. 

Robert Vivian's latest book under his own name is All I Feel Is Rivers, though he did publish a novel under a pseudonym in 2024. He teaches at Alma College and fly-fishes whenever possible.  

Amway asphalt, default highway 

Botox sundaes detox Sunday,

Comcaster oil changes climate,

Democrats argufy Aristocatic demagogues. 

Exxon axis: egret Exodus.

Fritos pray. Egos Lay

Google Hammy Spam burglars:

Holiday Hotpocket Inn digestion.

International Blouse of Flan-flakes!

John, Jiffy, Jesus, Lube.

Krafts kraal: Pepto Dismal.

Lord’s fjord ignores Ford.

Metamucil Acts: Muzak Uzi.

Nvidia’s Leviticus: Nextel Heaven.

Old Knaves, egads! Gonads!

Prozaced Lorax mustaches Bigmac;

Qwest divests febrific Febreze.

Republicans Rolaid licksplittens. Poll-raid!

Soft-honeyed Splenda sycophants plunder

True Green. Beshrewed glean:

United Hairlines unilateral pratfall.

Victoria’s Visas: Secret vendettas:

Wal-Mart brawl, double deed:

Xeroxed, Xeeted Xanadoo-doo: Clorox.

Yankee Yahoos. Yoohoo, Yaweh?

Zenith: soporific Zoloft landing!

Apart from creative nonfiction and poetry, Adrian DeBoy aspires in the arts of teaching, parenting, and living. He has tilled twenty-four years into high school with hopefully sixteen-ish to go. Other sources of joy: cooking, hiking, biking, gardening, and being with his wife and sons. This is his first publication. 

The Blank Banner

In Dante's “Inferno” a special enclave of Hell,

Choice abode of eager wasps and hornets,

Is reserved for those whose intellects

Lack decisiveness, who cannot spell 

The difference between doubt and treason 

And spurning faith and rebellion

Do nothing. They have private horror,

Obsessively deliberate bleak reason’s

Parabolic arc, are terrorized by glare

Of limb blasts, and faith’s fiery ardor.

They flinch from both. They seek to be free

Of what to them is noise, trumpet blare 

In anthems and hymn’s glide, salute colorless 

Banners, clear of resurrection and the killing mess. 

Pramod Lad was born in India and has a Ph.D. in biochemistry from Cornell University. His poems have been accepted in Wilderness House Literary Review, Eclectica Magazine, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Litbreak Magazine, Amethyst Review, Soul Forte, Neologism, Verse Virtual, and elsewhere.