Welcome

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. 

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." 

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.