Welcome

An Elegy

An elegy for the water that baptizes you in holiness.

An elegy for the hopes that part diamonds across your lips when you smile.

An elegy for the real times you cried out to God and He heard you.

An elegy for the chorus that broke you holy as a musical note across a hymnal.

An elegy for the way his mouth moved when he stood convicted against an unforgiving sky.

An elegy for the days that stacked on top of one another, stretching out like a book, forming the longest pages.

An elegy for the sound you made when you realized he would never really love you, that agonizing ache that started in your diaphragm and made its way into the lining of your lungs.

An elegy for how you hoped against hope for a different outcome, but trusting God to know what is best.

An elegy for strangled heartbeats, for how can it bear to beat without him? 

An elegy for drowning in the same water you surrendered yourself to, and trusting God to pull you out of a depression you could never heal for yourself.

An elegy for the way you could stand on the shore again, and stand so tall, it’s almost like you’ve grown an inch.

An elegy for healing your lungs from the screams that escaped you like air being let out of a balloon.

An elegy for the devotion of the Savior to His sheep who stray from Him, to leave the 99 to find you.

An elegy for zealously surrendering to Him with everything you have in you.

An elegy for ancient wonders caught in the Father’s arms and not ever wanting to depart from there. 

An elegy for the feeling of being so at peace with yourself, knowing that you are greatly and deeply loved by the Creator of the Universe.

An elegy for wanting to always stay in His presence.

An elegy for His beauty backlit against a moonless sky. 

An elegy for the feeling of being completely seen and known by God.

An elegy for your life being offered up as an offering to a holy and perfect God.

An elegy for ending your life with God saying well done good and faithful servant, and knowing you ran the race well set before you.

The Sky Starts 

The sky starts where you first found peace

amongst the chaos of a fallen world.

Each constellation paints itself shimmering

against the great nothingness of space.

I track it all with my fluttering eyes—

chaos bold beneath the hope

that a fallen world will right itself.

Yet the hope of a Savior looms expectant,

hanging in the air like He hung on that Cross.

My lungs shred with cries when a great

burst of light shoots out of that nothingness.

My Savior is here! 

And He is here to right the havoc 

that the world presents itself.

With love in His eyes, He stands tall

and gets to work.

I Thought of You 

Long after I painted the horizon

hot against my memory,

long after I planted the trees lush

with their fruit and hung the stars

haphazardly with the brush of my fingertips,

long after the sun hung scorched above

a midday sky,

and the birds of the air flicker from tree to tree

like messengers I plant just for me,

long after the water bore its creatures of varying sizes,

whales and starfish, dolphins and turtles,

long after my lungs crafted the air, the sky,

the atmosphere all around them, 

long after I pronounced it was all very good: 

I thought of you.

You with your bold and tenacious spirit,

your absolute resolve to create words,

to strike a match and give light to all

those around you.

You with your beauty, sometimes hidden

from sight yet still shining from your spirit.

You with your great love for Me, for My

Creation, for slowly bringing your family

to know My Son.

I thought of you, sweet daughter.

Even before you were created,

I thought of you.

My Body Is a Temple 

My body is a temple.

My body is a tower crumbling.

My body is his receptable.

My body is his play thing.

My body is his spit cup.

My body is his jar of loose change.

My body is a canvas.

My body is a paintbrush.

My body is the last drop of muddy paint.

My body is the last bit of toothpaste in the tube.

My body is flayed meat. 

My body is sinking rocks in a tank.

My body is a burnt out sparkler.

My body is a stomped on flower. 

My body is a broken crayon. 

My body is a myth.

My body is a temple. 

Katlyn Shea Sweeney has been enchanted with writing since the fifth grade, when her teacher held up a piece for the whole class to see. She has a bachelor's degree in Creative Writing with a Minor in Religion from Central Michigan University. She someday would love to travel the world and write about her adventures. Her day job is to take care of someone living with a disability. Her best friend is her twin sister. 

A Vision of Wings

In hiding,

on a branch of a tree,

in a garden,

I waited so long

in my cocoon,

full of hope

to finally emerge. 

It didn’t happen. 

Now that I think,

under layers of warm silk,

perhaps it is not a butterfly

that I am preparing to surface,

but something else

altogether – 

a surprise.

The process of becoming

no matter what,

in a cocoon,

hanging still,

on a branch of a tree . . .

When Spring Comes

She lives in a place

where there is too much winter,

for far too long. 

It is atop a mountain, 

not at the end of the world.

Silence rises each morning

with the mist. 

Yet, it is there that 

the purest water stream

found an opening

to emerge and flow

under the glacier, 

under the snow. 

And she runs – 

a lone wolf – 

from one stark peak

to the next,

watching patiently

togetherness unfolding 

down below

and above, 

clouds running freely. 

And sometimes she howls.

Oh,

but when spring finally comes . . .

A Fall into the Sky

On the brink

of a most worthwhile rim

one could possibly

position herself – 

to see the beauty she is

the same as she witnesses it

in everybody and everything else,

not from not noticing

and accounting for

the imperfection 

beauty encompasses,

but precisely despite it 

and because of it.

It is like the beauty uncovered

by the tree with a broken branch,

exuding

a different kind of harmony,

deeper,

unique

because of her willingness

to grow whole,

toward the sky,

despite her brokenness. 

True beauty lies

with the wound,

in the wound.

And she wants to fall

with all her heart

over the edge

she finds herself standing,

like a bird must plunge

before opening her wings.

The wind blows…

Blue Infinity

She wishes her skin was blue,

blue like a blue opal,

blue like Lapis Lazuli,

blue like the sky,

and blue like the water – 

a blue openly seen.

She would have walked earth,

still marginalized,

still at the periphery,

still hidden in the veil

between exclusion and inclusion,

yet clear of her difference – 

not a deserved difference,

not a wrong difference,

but with a visible distinction, 

nevertheless.

Hidden in the veil

between exclusion and inclusion,

the argument lies

in the invisible color of her soul –  

blue like a blue opal,

blue like Lapis Lazuli,

blue like the sky,

and blue like the water.

In the silence of mountain heights,

she breathes alone, keeping distance,

wishing the human world

would be less grey

and more . . .

Cleopatra Sorina Iliescu is a poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. Her poems and art have been widely published, most notably in her longtime supporters, Soul Forte: A Journal for Spiritual Writing and Mukoli: The Magazine for Peace. In her current series of sixty poems, "Within an Open-Ended Paradox," she explores the contradictions inherent in identity and becoming. The endings are intentionally open, allowing tension to breathe and vulnerability to remain visible on the page. 

Every Time It's the Nature

Every time it’s the Nature 

that welcomes you the dearest

surrounding the universal being in its overwhelming glory

of the simplest, yet tremendously complex

way of existing in your most comfortable layer.

This is my original self. Which

involves so many abandoned layers of unnecessary habits 

and stuck emotions, but yet, 

here

the ultimate complexity of humanness finds me.

Fills me with dozens of mosquito bites that are 

more comforting than the pain they anticipate.

Getting pampered in the lack of manmade noise.

Feeling the pleasure of the hospitality of the loved ones,

the comfort of being – again – surrounded by the familiar;

the Nature, the inner Warmth, Nature’s beauty and 

the Language.

Home. 

The treacherous longing for the past while living in the present with its unique

challenges.

I might not belong here anymore, but right here my emptiness feels in its place,

and something in me gets fulfilled in a way that, for a moment, I, once more, can let go

of the idea of the past being superior to the present.

Here I can be me, but not only here.

The Future is supposed to be unknown and finally

that pleases me. 

Kata Hyvärinen is a Finnish teacher, linguist, and an avid reader who found bilingual poems coming out of her after living in the U.S. for ten years. She still speaks, talks, and reads mainly in Finnish, so her poems are an interesting outlet for the second language. Her dream is to get a long novel published -- in Finnish of course! 

Rain is Quiet

Sometimes rain feels like tears

The sky and I both break

In storms

But after rain

after tears

LaToya Young is a writer and student in Washington, DC. 

After the Diagnosis

days still begin with tea,

end with a prayer and candle

lit in praise of Guan Yin

and her thousand arms

which, as weeks weaken

and days die down,

support me more

and more.

Crows, years,

both fly past without our knowing

where they’ve come from

or where they’re going.

Clouds, hair,

both pass white over our heads,

then vanish without a trace.

Not knowing where paths might lead

seems reason enough to set aside certainty,

live less as thinking, more as landscape.

Every shaded path, or pool of rain:

Po Chui’s perfect place

to loosen the knot of your name.

Little wonder lines lean now

toward shorter sentences, I-less stanzas.

Tao Ch’ien’s poems come to mind:

his words a wilderness

that doesn’t need us.

Anchoress

Julian of Norwich (ca.1342-1416 CE) 

Thrice

before my Showings,

before my thirtieth year,

I awaken in darkness

to darkness— 

Black Death, pestilence,

plague-carts rattling 

like bones in the street, 

the clanging bell 

and cart-driver’s cry:

Bring out your dead!

*

Twenty years later,

my solitary life as anchoress—

St Julian’s Church in Norwich, 

where locals call me:

Lady Julian—

precious

prayerful 

presence

prized 

by the city.

Where, from my

hazelnut-anchorhold

I proffer kernels of comfort, 

compassion, counsel,

to passersby who seek

my open window, heart, ear—

my assurance all shall be well 

and all manner of thing, 

however small, 

shall be well, 

the yes in my eyes 

enfolding in Love 

whoever

whatever 

needs.

*

No before,

nor after.

Just this.

What I was

who I was

uprooted 

like burdock

herbal purifier

broken open

by Mother-Christ’s 

compassion.

Broken open 

for poultice,

for healing.

anchorhold: a cell, usually attached to a church, where an anchoress (female recluse) lived.

Showings: (or Shewings) visions, recorded in Julian’s book, Revelations of Divine Love, first book written in English by a woman (ca.1400 CE).

hazelnut: Julian’s famous vision of a hazelnut (symbol for all creation). Small, fragile, it endures because God created it and loves it. 

Silentium

its own 

cloistered secret

Doesn’t tell

Not a whisper

Sunrise

utterly unuttered, 

dawning before, 

beyond words 

Prayers

unspilled, unspelled, 

tucked tongueless

inside tears, 

heartbreak 

truth

No chant

One monk

Holy

used to mean

hymns, chant,

not so much getting words,

but harmony right, all together, 

a few well-blended 

seconds, minutes 

singing God like birds do

without even trying

is what sacred is, sounds like,

when nobody’s listening, looking, 

making us do it,

we find the right branch, our own, 

up high or low, doesn’t matter

what religion a tree is

because, well, branches 

(all Daoist) might describe it like this: 

Red Finch, White-crowned Sparrow, 

whatever song the next bird

does or doesn’t bring.

A 2026 Pushcart prize nominee, Daniel Skach-Mills’s poetry is forthcoming in The Pensive Journal and Wild Roof Review. His book, The Hut Beneath the Pine, was a 2012 Oregon Book Award finalist. A former Trappist monk, Daniel lives in Portland, Oregon, where he served fifteen years as a docent for Lan Su Chinese Garden. 

There are connections

(when there are two)

To click or not to click

to click into place

To feel an instant connection

easy and natural

Effortless and true

The first meeting

the first time we met

“I like you”

“I like talking to you”

I said to myself

Did the other feel this way? 

Was there energy between us?

What about understanding?

Did it flow both ways?

Later that night 

an intense feeling

A feeling of light 

of reaching high

“Love and Light”

as some say

Once again

“I like you”

“I like talking to you”

and being with you

I do

As for connecting

we’re one

You step 

I step

We step together

as one

We did so 

when we said goodbye

A few questions remained

What connects us to others?

Will I see them again?

The universe does

Not a cold mechanistic one

but a conscious Being

that knows what we need

Love

Companionship

Friends

As the saying goes

“the universe provides”

A well-used cliché 

but true

Always true

Always

Harry Liantziris is an emerging writer: a part-time poet and a non-fiction writer on spirituality. The former includes a science fiction poem in an anthology. He sees the world as a connected whole, a fully integrated system that should make room for everyone. If only. 

Toward Peace

Peace is not something to be found outside; it must be cultivated from within. Even in a divided world, peace is possible—not because the world changes, but because our hearts change. —Venerable Bhikkhu Pannakara, leading the Walk for Peace

I drop my rocketing
thoughts of headlines,
imagine a quiet glen—
deer forage, flicking
their little white tails.
They lift their heads,
attentive—ample ears
swivel, tails gone still.
Fox, slinking along
the margin of the woods
no threat, they return
to graze.
That quiet, that peace,
breathing each one of us.
 

Mind pivots back to news
a soft Let’s set that down.
Cleansing breath
begins again—
hundreds of times a day.

Octogenarian

a villanelle

Growing old is not so very tender

gravity’s relentless pull to ground

and yet there is a kind of splendor

As the body falls apart, is spent, or

eventually ends up bed-bound

Growing old is not so very tender

The mind softens toward surrender

loses proper names, then nouns

and yet there is a kind of splendor

in hearts dropping their defender

stance, and softening into newfound— 

Growing old is not so very tender

Creakiness as time grows slender

physical challenges all around

and yet there is a kind of splendor

Courage is required as we’re rendered

Straighten tall, picture a queenly crown

growing old is not so very tender

and yet there is a kind of splendor

Be Kind 

It is about . . . behaving as beautifully as one can under completely impossible circumstances. —Toni Morrison

The snail creeping

across the road,

a few seconds to move it.

An elderly woman, struggling,

her grocery cart

caught on the steps,

Five minutes to offer

a hand, warm greeting

I may be the only person

she speaks with today.

This life, cruel, radiant,

painful, rare, shockingly 

short 

The call:

impossible circumstances

behave beautifully now

Light to Light 

In this ramble life

filled with sorrows,

my far-flung friends

cast poems like lights

from hand to hand

It’s how we cope,

lofting seeds

into the ether

sprinkling love 

through the dark

A net of light,

each of us a node

imagine it

dream it

see 

Amrita Skye Blaine develops themes of impermanence, disability, awakening, and the state of our world. Two collections came out Spring 2025. She has been published in sixteen poetry anthologies, numerous literary magazines, and is a 2025 Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Anthology nominee. 

For the first time today! 

I saw the sky for the first time today— 

not as blue, 

not as vast, 

not as the ceiling of thought or faith— 

but simply sky, 

without meaning, 

without a name. 

It felt like infinity, 

it stole my breath— 

a sky unchained, 

beyond all death. 

I saw the grass for the first time today— 

not as green, 

not as soft, 

not as comfort for weary feet. 

But fiercely alive, 

breathing softly beneath me. 

I saw the cloud for the first time today— 

not as white, 

not as drifting, 

not as something passing overhead. 

But tenderly wild, 

shaping itself with the wind’s own pulse. 

I met an old friend today— 

though we had no memories to reach for, 

no past encounters to lean upon. 

Just two beings, 

arriving in the same moment, 

breathing the same slice of time. 

We didn’t need many words. 

The silence between us 

was enough to acknowledge 

each other's existence. 

And I saw myself in the mirror today— 

not as someone burdened with guilt, 

not as a complaint, 

not as a name to protect, 

but silent, aware, and observant. 

Simply a soul in the skin. 

For once, 

I didn’t want to change it. 

I saw the illusion 

and that seeing 

was enough. 

Dipesh Parajuli a poet based in Virginia, USA. He has been writing poems for many years. He sees poetry as the most spiritual form of expression. Rooted in meditation and mindfulness, his work reflects his ongoing journey as a spiritual seeker. 

The Voice from the Patio

You always sat there,

the seasoned, white wooden chair 

on the patio.

The chair facing 

the tall Douglas firs 

neatly lined up

in the backyard.

All moving in the late-summer breeze, 

just before sunset,

their leaves shining in the last light of the day,

as if smiling at their only audience.

“Yuko, the trees are dancing for me. Come and join me,”

your deep, joyful voice calling.

I always answered from the kitchen, 

wondering how the trees could even dance,

half-smiling at your words.

“I will be there soon,

when your favorite soup is ready.”

I kept stirring the soup,

hoping you’d turn your head.

I was still a child, 

unaware

of the meaning of your gentle invitation

to breathe together with the dancing trees. 

I was ready to come to you,

to watch the dancing trees.

You were no longer there

to share that moment.

Abraham, you already knew

how close your destiny was—

no fear, 

no doubt,

while I turned away, unable to see it clearly.

Now I look at the empty patio chair,

longing for you

to call me once again, 

“Yuko, trees are dancing for us. Come and join me,”  

and for me to answer, 

“Yes, Abraham, I am coming to sit with you.”  

I wish—

though not possible,

to sit together and

watch

the majestic trees

dancing 

in the late summer breeze,

just one more time.

The Lemon Tree

On the day after

his Oakwood case was covered with cold black soil,

our daughter gave me,

a small lemon tree about one foot tall.

So ordinary,

skinny tree with only green leaves,

in a black plastic pot

sitting on the sill of the window of the white bathroom,

the tiny tree facing the tall, impressive buildings of the City,

far from home, sitting alone.

I drank tea without company, 

I watered the tree, 

only friend, trying to survive in a plastic pot.

One morning,

a small green fruit hanging on a skinny tree branch,

white flowers perfuming,

in bright spring sunlight. 

I continued to water the tree,

a small green fruit grew, 

becoming

a yellow lemon just like one in a grocery bag,

still hanging on the tree branch, 

almost time to let it go.

I will harvest your fruit tomorrow

for tea,

and we will drink it together. 

The bright sunlight,

the blue sky, 

over the tall, impressive buildings.  

Born in Japan, Yuko Mulugetta spent her professional life in the U.S. as a statistician. Married for over forty years to the late Dr. Mulugetta of Ethiopia, she carries forward his faith in love, trust, and compassion. After loss, she returned to meditation, discovering poetry, bridging East, West, and Africa.

Ad Flumen

Author’s Note for Ad Flumen

A Lenten reflection through a Dantean lens, where desire is purified, the heart is read, and what once bound falls away. 

And time’s bare barbed hand
on midnight strikes again;
pulls its thread ever thin,
lines trace beneath skin.

Asperges me, Asperges me
circles now resoundingly

Dim light through thick mist falls,
echoes from banquet halls,
to unreal realms beneath,
silent trees in ivy sheathed.

Asperges me, Asperges me
searches ever longingly

Spring’s love, elegant and fair,
through Winter’s cold rendered bare;
wanders now in empty Dis,
lone lament for all it missed.

Asperges me, asperges me
sifting sighs knowingly

Faint murmurs rise and spread,
a heart soon truly read.
Waters wash all I hide —
past that no longer binds.

Asperges me, Asperges me
River Lethe calls for me.

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.

Kailash
 

The abode of Shiva,
the centre of the universe—
a repository of knowing
and unknowing as much.
 

A mountain
as much seen
as it remains
undiscovered,
 

utterly ungraspable,
and yet
absolutely relatable—
through something
 

it touches
from within,
the core
of us each:
 

a void—
that refuses to be filled
by anything
less than nothing;
 

a possibility—
that outlives belief,
stays unalloyed
by culture or faith.
 

Not just
out there—
 

Kailash
is
what rises
within.

Insufferable
 

Rivers of wine
flowing shoreless—
to get drunk
without drowning,
or a trace of hangover.
 

Food to sate
every appetite
without a cook,
a recipe-book,
or the burden
of gluttony.
 

Woods and winds
whistling melodies
needing no instrument,
nor practice.
 

Wishing trees
granting desires
before they are wished—
not needing to wait
for ambition or planning.
 

Worry, a thing of the past.
Tomorrow that looks
exactly like Yesterday,
the selfsame
as Today.
 

No weekdays,
no weekends,
no counting down
to holidays
to escape.
 

Time wearing out
only itself.
 

What if it was
the monotony
of eternity
that made us die—
for a stint at life?
 

To feel the ache
of a stubbed toe,
and a heartbreak.
 

To hear the noise
of crickets, traffic,
dogs howling
for no reason at night.
 

To feel fear—
of loss,
of death,
of suffering itself—
 

the very price
we agreed to pay
for a brief trip
out of
 

the insufferable
eternity.
 

Undistracted
 

Not so much
the act itself—
not even its consequences,
you could perhaps fend.
 

It is the thin
veneer of guilt
that you so
easily shed,
 

and the thick
coat of justification
you paint
your intents with—
 

layering reasons
upon excuses
to ready yourself
to indulge yet again.
 

That is
the true
and the only
sin—
 

against the possibility
that waits within—
for you to remain
undistracted.
 

Neurologist by profession, poet by accident, and seeker by choice, JB Felix’s work explores the immensities of time, consciousness, and the state of being. The poems move between the intimate and the cosmic, dissolving the boundaries between self and world, often carried by a contemplative musicality and a lyrical voice distinctive to Felix’s style. Writing about presence, perception, and the subtle transformations that shape a life, Felix draws on an introspective clarity that reaches quiet philosophical depths—where observation meets wonderment. 

Ballooned 

What was it? A bump that grew and grew?

So when she said “My God I can’t stop 

Ballooning” it made sense at last. How 

Could she have swallowed one so large, keep

It fixed in place? His balloons tugged and flew.

Then all that he thought he knew blew its top.

Over decades again and again he came to know

How invisible lives popped, their deep

Secrets opened. He grew afraid of birthdays

Those familial bursts, how could he guess

Which ones camouflaged new monsters?

Years ushered in younger balloons. Then play 

Shriveled. Now that a smaller self-mattered less,

Might he, cocooned tight, sail into thin air.

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, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Umbrella Factory, The Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Pennine Platform, Litbreak Magazine, Amethyst Review, Soul Forte: A Journal for Spiritual Writing, Creations Magazine, Penwood Review, Neologism, Verse Virtual, and elsewhere.  

You Are a Penitent Walking . . .

one eye on the weather, the other on the way forward, your mind on the library of your failures. You want your life to be different and so strain to calibrate your awareness to the season, the shade of blue most likely above you tomorrow, the smell of sausage cooking in the diner you pass. 

But you can’t help wishing, just for a moment, it all meant something beyond the fact of it. A memory, loaded with dark energy, threatens to explode inside you, a glimpse of domesticity in a place just short of utterly wild. You focus on your footsteps as you step from the curb and over asphalt and the thought passes like a small fit. 

There can be no solace as long as you carry the past like a sack of bones, as long as this wandering is not for its own sake. The air afire with locust blossom scent, birds belting out their ancient blues, children laughing in the register of joy. Cars passing just cars passing. You, a human walking, one eye on the weather, the other on the way forward.  

Learning to Pray

Approaching darkness is the gate

through which the birds of omen 

enter your life. Beauty in their beaks, 

blood in their song: the cryptic 

tale of your time here,

all that is spinning away.

You want to love the birds,

their flight full of wonder

and anger and something

close to wisdom, the bright 

faces of the lost. Full

of what passes through 

your mind at the sight 

of them, the sound.

You want to shout 

accompaniment as night 

settles so deep your breath

is thunder, heartbeat a storm, 

every blink of your burning 

eyes a tsunami of being

you can barely withstand:

the possibilities.

But the chorus is a repetition of loss

and of love-in-spite, words

even a three-year-old can repeat

as chant and prayer but beyond 

your ability now to hear them clearly,

let alone sing them: love, suffering, joy.

You hold your breath, swing

your arms wildly as you spin

circles. You settle for humming 

to equal rough birdsong, the cries 

of ravens or crows maybe, dying

doves, and one day perhaps, years 

later, you hope to manage a few meager 

words of praise: Birth, you will say. Death.

Under the turning sky you remind 

yourself the day will come 

when the birds don’t arrive,

the sacred transubstantiated 

to silence that reaches beyond 

the stars. You want to be grateful

for what is, including all your losses.

Love, you will finally say. Suffering.

Joy.
 

Michael McIrvin is the author of several poetry collections, including Optimism Blues: Poems Selected and New and Hearing Voices (Fearful Symmetry, 2020). His most recent novel is The Blue Man Dreams the End of Time. Michael lives on the High Plains of Wyoming.