Welcome

Another March

caught in the torrents

of heavy spring run-off

thrown downstream

helpless as branches

already in bud        broken off

some good things will happen

daffodils bright as brassy trumpets 

some good things will happen

this spring       the crocuses will bloom

with their three cupped hands

Hyacinth’s buttery thick petals

will open        tiny bells

in pastels and perfume

light will break like honey

on the foothills       bumblebees 

are busy in the white apricot blossoms 

go ahead and order the Shortbread

and Thin Mints       March is here 

who knows what next year will bring

take a dozen bunches of daffodils

with their       bright brassy trumpets 

just about to open

Maureen Clark’s This Insatiable August was released by Signature Books and won the AML Award (Association for Mormon Letters) for Best Poetry Book of 2024. Her memoir Confessions of a Once Upon a Time Mormon Girl by Hypatia Press was released in June 2026. She received her MFA from the University of Utah and taught there for twenty years. 

Door

At the center of your universe

is a door. 

Open it

to travel

beyond this world.

When you return

leave the door open.

The poems will follow you.

Like a flood

they will be upon you,

lifting you from the surface,

in a great stream of beauty.

Lisa Tener has published poetry in The Northeast Coast, plus three poems forthcoming in North of Oxford. Her nonfiction books won multiple awards including Gold Nautilus Book Award. Lisa served on the faculty of Harvard Medical School’s Continuing Medical Education (CME) writing and publishing course for thirteen years and is a book coach.

Testing the Map

at

last

the trail 

reached the top 

but our path diverged, 

testing the map,

since a trail

is only a plan 

and, let's face it,

plans are problematic,

like when we 

safely summited 

and yet slipped off, 

watching Orion stalk 

across the summer sky, 

chasing the Pleiades 

again on a trail with no

beginning and no end

that trail calls his morning 

as the fog lifts and 

reveals another dawn,

recurring, not repeating,

returning, never gone

unsure steps tonight

following Orion, 

Pleiades in sight, 

testing the map 

as plans unravel, 

seeking signs 

and solace 

on the only 

trail we'll 

ever travel 

Gene Hyde is a retired archivist living in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. His poetry and photography have appeared in Cold Mountain Review, Amethyst Review, Soul Forte, Salvation South, Appalachian Journal, San Antonio Review, Shelia-na-Gig Online, Third Wednesday, Raven's Perch, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, and elsewhere. 

Marginalia

There were years when I
read the Bible avidly, as if it
were a best-selling novel, which it is –
best-selling, though people still debate
whether it’s fact or fiction.

Last week I picked up an old Bible,
the one I had read throughout my
college years, the front cover detached
and onion-skin pages turned over.

I opened it at random and
found verses underlined in red ink,
copious notes and comments
scribbled in margins.

The handwriting looked strangely
familiar, an earlier version of my own.
Reading these notes from long ago,
I was intrigued by the thoughts of
that young girl, her innocence and
religious fervor, so much of which has,
like the red ink in the margins,

faded over the years.

Mary Ellen Shaughan is a native Iowan who now calls Western Massachusetts home. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies both in this country and the UK, and has been nominated for a Pushcart prize. Her first book of poetry, Home Grown, can be found on Amazon and elsewhere. 

Perpetual Reality

We have heard it lives inside us, it is found within. Open to its energy, we are told, maintain the connection — if it slips out of consciousness, call on it again. It’s always accessible. Lotus position, eyes shut, clear all thoughts, be still: our silence creates space for it to appear. Integrate every day. Follow its counsel.

But here is another truth: we live inside it. 

It is above and below, alongside, encircling us. Without effort we are contained within. We are its makeup, its inner workings, its spit and blood. Ground in this perpetual reality — reach out and touch it, breathe it in; absorb it as a fish does water, become saturated. 

Isn’t our entire planet surrounded by this energy as well, vibes that fill and wrap around Earth and all it contains? We are residents of the cosmos, along with other planets, beings, and galactic systems. Mars is our neighbor, Mercury our . . . sibling? Are we all cosmic offspring? Perhaps the cosmos vibrates the energy of creation itself. Eternally. Then, in essence, we are one multi-planetary family from one creator. Could this be the true oneness we speak of?

Philip Matcovsky’s writing is nominated for Best Small Fictions 2026. His work has been featured in Amethyst Review, Braided Way Magazine, Odyssey Magazine, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and elsewhere. He is a lightworker and cosmic traveler based in New York.

Perfectly Imperfect

Small patches of snow litter the lawn

my faith too thin to cover my flaws,

frigid wind whips through my coat;

mistakes slice through my soul. 

An imperfect Christmas morning.

I have to cut short my walk;

inside, I sit and meditate,

a revved heart gradually slows to idle,

thumpity thump… thump…… thump.

Morning solitude is sweet,

brain stops bouncing around

like popcorn in the microwave,

poppity pop... pop…… pop.

The Spirit brings blessings to mind — 

two kids home from college;

whole family watching a sitcom

laughing until we cry.

Kate’s swift sarcasm,

Ben’s witty banter,

Coleen’s lyrical laugh,

Pick on Dad dinners.

In the quiet of a Christmas morning,

faith lands softly like snowflakes,

the frost and biting gust

of accusations disappear.

Embracing

an imperfect day,

a win for meditation

another victory for faith.

Waterfall

(inspired by John Milton’s poem, 

“On His Blindness”)

God, why create a stunning waterfall

then dam it to a dribble all its days?

Majestic mist no one will ever see

accursed behind a wall, deprived of praise.

To grant a skill then clog it seems unfair — 

one’s nature needs to flow and find the sea 

confer your grace, release my art to pour

reveal the route that sets my talent free.

Lord, listen to the regal roar but heed

for water wails, I want to run unchecked

to bless those thirsting in the valley through

stream to lake then to their home connect.

For some, their craft is dammed within the heart;

for me, my gifts are gridlocked in my mind.

Creator, raise the gates within your charge 

release me to cascade as you designed.

Three years ago, Randy Fowler was feeling emotionally detached, so decided to attend a weekend silent retreat. He was encouraged to journal and wrote twenty-four poems in thirty-six hours. Randy considers himself a soul poet – the greatest beauty is baring one’s soul and the greatest honor is standing for the oppressed. 

Threading

I squint my eyes to see 

The tiny elongated rim with its sharp, long pin 

As it beckons, I lean forward to

Draw that minuscule view toward me

The leaves, the trees, the road ahead all fade in a blur 

As I eagle eye the eye of the needle

It’s floating there, glistening, perfect, shiny and new

I am seeking to peer through the eye of that tiny needle

I run toward it

That eye stays just as small even when I am so close

I imagine my hands are small enough 

To grab onto those gleaming edges

Like hopping on my green Schwinn bicycle 

And clutching the handlebars with streamers 

Tapering down to a single thin thread

A streak that aims for the slim opening

I will leap, hold on tight and

Jump through that eye 

Can I fold as I shrink

To slide right on through?

How small must I be to find my way 

To the truth of just how big I can be? 

I am threading my soul through 

To see my true reflection

I am threading my soul through

The needle that is stitching the pieces together

Then, I will be part of something

I will be something or

Perhaps nothing at all in the place 

Where all that is - Is.

If it gets closer with welcome

Will I just step right in? 

Just enough space to comfortably

Slide through the eye

Like cutting soft butter

Like melting into bed, like embracing a lover

The shiny mirror on the other side 

Bounces off light as I peek through 

Like numinous pools of water 

I discover in my dreams

Blue, clear waters 

Reflecting in the sun 

Where I dip my feet into healing coolness 

Glimpses of knowing the vast oneness 

Death is curious and peculiar 

We cannot go there until we go there

Maryilyn Perlman is a mother of four and retired clinical psychologist who specialized in working with cancer patients, grief, and the clinical use of dreams. Her essays and poems explore personal experiences with themes related to body, nature, identity, the unexpected, the relationships that shape us, and spiritual yearning. 

Prodigal Son

I knew the stream’s misty breath

& slumbering buttonbush masking

sunken banks with white blooms

to the footpath, its gate of willows

green in sun & shadow fractals

up steps of roots whispering with

horsetail reeds lassoed in light

& gusts of late-summer grackles,

robins lollying from leaf to leaf.

I knew the trail & grassy meadow

with colts & calves shrugging

flies, phlox & verbana flecking a

sundance of yellowstars. How

warm the summer rain gathered

above our woods, against our

gravel drive just in earshot of

your voice & busy sighs, alone

trimming dogwood in the garden

& soft pause at my approach,

in your glance & sudden smile

in your eyes how far I strayed

in your arms the grace of home.

Casey Morris's writing has appeared in Decadent Serpent and Atropos Poetry Magazine and is forthcoming in The Bluebird Word, the Friends journal, and Ginosko Magazine. 

Sweet Drink

And when she nursed him

He was all hers, the milk droplets

Shriven as his blood

For those few months

He was and she cosseted him

In the orchards, in the threshed

Fields, unabashed she was

Her flesh proffered

And the light christened

Them, the two

Delirious, swaddled

In the scent of hyacinth

For flowers sprouted

In her wake, the green silence

Closing over them,

The still bits of hopefulness,

The exalted solitude.

Imagine it, the world

Turning over like a dream

Her sewing basket

At her side for when he slept

She was knitting 

Blankets which she sold,

Ones that drooped like fishnets

For her fingers were always

Busy, they had to be

Given the blistering knowledge

The angel told her

That her son would be

Taken early

Time’s end at the beginning,

Shape of fate wrapped in

Passion’s flame.

Leonore Wilson is a college English and creative writing teacher from Northern California. She is on the MFA Board at St Mary’s College of California. Her poetry books are Western Solstice (Hireath Press) and Tremendum, Augustum (Kelsey Press). Leonore’s work has been in The Iowa Review, Unruly Catholic Women Writers, Trivia: Voices of Feminism, Third Coast, Prairie Schooner, Quarterly West, Upstreet, Madison Review, Laurel Review, Pif, and more. Her historic cattle ranch and family home in Napa Valley were recently destroyed in the LNU fire. 

The Other Side

Life can be a desperate duration

You force yourself

barely just through

Troubled times rise

like dust and debris

A rift of radiance

pierces the gray

And God promises—

Love

Returning

Mike Shoe is a North Carolina–based writer and father of four daughters. He holds a B.A. in Management and Ethics from Carolina University (formerly John Wesley University). He is currently at work on his debut poetry collection, "Architecture of the Arisen," which explores the tension between inner transformation and external life. 

In-A-Gadda–Da-Vida

The night of the 10th grade dance 

was a Turning point

But I couldn’t have said that then

Or told you from what, to what 

All I knew was that 

We were out of our Catholic school uniforms 

And I was thrilled to be wearing my white ruffled blouse

And my brand new black satin skirt

I wasn’t really sure how to put on perfume 

And I got the distant impression I might have sprayed too much . . . 

We were all a little sugar high anyway

on Hawaiian Punch and lemon frosted cupcakes

Served from the card tables decorated with green crepe paper.

The sisters and brothers and priests

Chaperoned us as we danced

Standing nearby, but not too close.

We padded around in the gym 

The girls in their stockinged feel 

The boys in white socks 

The Dance Committee had hired a garage band for $25. 

Our dream came true 

When they played the Iron Butterfly song

We danced to the 17-minute drum solo

Played as loud as they could get the speakers to go

The strobe lights made us feel safe 

No one could really see 

And you danced as you really felt

As we turned and twisted

dancing as hard as we could 

Some images flashed in my mind

Photos from our Comparative Religion text 

of the Whirling Dervish 

dancing their meditation

And of frescoes of the Garden 

Thick with vines 

One moment 

Before 

The Expulsion.

Regina Dilgen served as Professor of English and Department Chair at Palm Beach State College, and she holds a Ph.D. from Florida Atlantic University. She is the author of Back from the River (Moonstone Press, 2026). Her poetry has been published in journals including The Dewdrop and Poetry South. 

A Letter to God

You are peace;

From You is peace, and to You is peace.

Although I may not be as You want,

I swear by You that I love You.

Your love in my heart is the hope by which I live and breathe.

This is the first time I am writing a letter to You.

I do not know why; I cannot arrange my words.

I usually write hundreds of sentences with ease,

But here I am, ignorant of how to coordinate them

Into phrases befitting Your Majesty and Glory.

My hands tremble, my heart beats like a drum,

And my mind is confused, trying to find words worthy of You.

You are the All-Seeing, who sees my details.

You are the All-Hearing, who listens to my unspoken cries.

You are the All-Knowing, who knows what is hidden and what is loud.

You are the Beloved who mends my brokenness,

The Strong who gives me strength,

The Facilitator who inspires me to be.

Yet, I find myself scattered in writing.

I love Your hidden kindness under challenging moments.

I love Your tender verses that pat my shoulder on difficult days.

I love Your covering of my slips,

And Your solutions that knock on my door without appointments.

You are the Disposer of Affairs I always find

When everyone around me disappears.

My conversation with You is usually in prostration.

When I cannot say a word, You are the best listener.

You are the light in my darkness.

You are the hope in my life.

You are the support in my loneliness.

If I thanked You forever, I would not fulfill Your rights.

This time, I wanted to talk to You in plain sight.

I wanted everyone to know my Beloved who is close at every moment.

My Beloved who restores what life destroys,

Who secures my fear and calms my mind.

Without You, I am nothing at all.

O God, the Companion of every stranger,

The Refuge of every fearful soul,

Plant Your hope so deeply in my heart

That I have no worries other than You.

For You are capable of everything.

Shady Alshorman, Ph.D., BCC, is a Board-Certified Chaplain at Orlando Health with over twenty years of experience in clinical care and religious leadership. Holding dual Ph.Ds in Religious Education and Islamic Studies, he specializes in interfaith dialogue and community building, providing expert spiritual support in high-acuity medical environments. 

The Long Man and His Mother

the night before last

I left my book at your house

because my mother died on monday

so I came back

and you took me in your arms

you took me back

in the morning

you said let’s go out for lunch

and I said let’s

because my mother died on monday

I went the wrong way

and we spotted the long man of wilmington

and as we drove past

you said I’ve never been to the long man

after lunch

and the laugh you had

with the fetching blacksmith

in the crystal shop

we parked and climbed

a sunken chalk path

along the ridge of the hill

cooling our feet on the damp stream bed

stopping for pincushions rampion

funnel webs an escaped cotoneaster 

centaury squinancywort mignonette

hawksbit and spiny restharrow

or candycross clitspur

as I called it

for the beauty of your laugh

stopped to pet dogs

stopped for cloud shadows

easing up the head of a valley

while the rooks dropped and lifted

stopped for windsong

my love

you took me back again

but who knows 

what happens next

descending

past blackberries

elderberries

hips & haws

we came to the long man

a silvery outline

across the slope

his turf 

quietly grazed 

by ponies

looking tiny

with meadow pipits

then silence

spreading his arms

and parting the doors to fey

the lips of birth

with our feet on the earth

he invokes

here I am

above and before us

gleam

his curves

over the ripples

of steep rising downland

in soft august sunshine

colours

past counting

walking to the road below

we stopped to look back

again and again

the light between clouds

scanning his body

felt it go through me

here I am

let this be now

let the past be past

and what’s to come

take care of itself

the ponies moved on

with occasional cries

tearing the air

clouds drifting over

in shade

his turf darkened

here I stand

all the brighter

I shine all the brighter 

strong and bright

here I lie

here I am

because my mother died on Monday

I saw him rise

where he lay

I saw him lie

where he rose

all of the long man

haloed

cool white

facing northwest

summer sky

saw the circuit

and poles

with you

with us

together

and apart

with the long man

wide open

everything

everything

everything 

flows

JV Crawford lives on the south coast of England where he writes, draws and tells stories. His illustrated novel Diveskin is a contemporary coming-of-age fantasy that draws on the legends of the shapeshifting seal-people known as the Selkie.

The Disappearance of Sally Hemming

Sally Hemming was a girl who loved trees. It seemed she was always in, or near some large tree. She could out climb all of the boys she knew and would stay in a tree longer than anybody else by a mile.

Sally seemed to have an understanding of trees others did not. She knew where the branches were, almost without looking, and always knew which branches would support her weight, and which branches had been compromised by insects or illness. Sally was a tree wizard! Most people thought she should have been born with green hair.

Other than that, Sally was an ordinary school girl, playing softball, running and swimming in the river; all the things the other children of her town loved. She loved school and especially loved biology, always getting As. Of course, when her biology course had to do with trees, Sally received an A++; a perfect score,

As the years passed Sally found herself at a university in Virginia studying to become an arborist, a person who studies trees, shrubs and vines. Her love of trees had not waned over the years and she was becoming quite well known for her knowledge of the proper care and nutrition of trees.

Sally loved trees so much she wrote a poem about them once while she was hiking through the Virginia mountains.

                                                                 Trees, by Sally Hemming

                     Walking up the mountain I long to grasp a leaf gently in my hand

                     then turn, slowly,

                     wrapping myself in its tree,

                     becoming its strength and nobility,

                     partaking in

                     the adsorption of elements from the air and soil

                     as it builds steadily,

                     moment upon moment.

                     Measuring time in milliseconds

                     then millennia.

                     Forever aloof from the travails of men.

Sally often wished she could do what her poem described; become part of a tree. She knew if this could happen she would know EVERYTHING about trees.

She began to experiment. As she walked through the forest and she saw a nice leaf hanging shoulder height she would grasp it gently, hold it against her shoulder and turn, very gently, with purpose. She might feel a tingling as she turned but that was about as far as it went.

Then Sally took a course at her school on “mindfulness” which was intended to help students to center and focus more on their scholastic programs. Sally discovered that this course offered much more! She learned that by quieting her mind she could focus her attention quite intently on what ever she was interested in. The course taught her how to listen to her breath as it went in and out of her lungs. This quieted the internal chatter which occupies us all to an extent and distracts us from our purpose.

Sally began to take the lessons she learned from this class into the forest. She would sit gently, quieting her mind, absorbing the feelings and intent of the trees, plants and animals about her until she felt a complete oneness with them.

After one very good session, as she walked silently back towards campus, she spotted the perfect leaf! She grasped it gently in her hand, then turned slowly, wrapping herself in it's tree, becoming it's strength and nobility. She felt her being dissolve into the tree as she merged with this giant oak. 

Her delight was beyond measure as she soared through the branches to the very top, from which she could look out over the countryside, seeing her university in the distance. She felt the giant tree pulling carbon dioxide from the air and water and minerals from the soil through the roots which covered an incredible area of the earth and intertwined with the roots of other trees in a dance of cooperation and love. After a few minutes, or hours or days in the tree, Sally realized that of all the emotions she felt at becoming a part of this lovely living being, love was the most powerful and prominent. Love was the emotion the tree presented to her and to the world. Sally lived in this love for a very long time, learning all of the ways of a tree. How it knew to cooperate with all of the other animals and plants in the forest so that, as a whole, the forest became more than any single individual plant or animal. It became a “FOREST” Sally, at long last knew the meaning of the word! It meant love! Love of the animals for the trees, love of the bushes for the animals love of the beauty and magical qualities of the soil which was enriched and revered by all. It was a symphony of beauty, love and cooperation all rolled up into a fantastic green paradise for all to enjoy.

Eventually Sally's tree came to realize that it's time on this beautiful earth, in this forest was coming to an end. Sally was sad BUT the tree was not. It taught Sally that it was going to become food for fungi, a hiding place for mice and groundhogs. A place for grubs and worms which would become food for bears and raccoons and finally, it would enrich the soil on which many more beautiful trees and plants would grow and distribute the love this great tree had accumulated over it's very long years.

As the tree released it's form, Sally felt herself being drawn down to the earth. She found her body had been encased by the tree when she came to be one with it and she rejoined her perfectly preserved body, becoming a beautiful young girl again.

Gosh! She exclaimed, this feels weird as she bent her arms and legs, shook out her long red hair and began to remember how to walk, then run. Breathing in the air, she discovered that she could now feel the oxygen being absorbed, something she learned from the tree. When she looked around the forest seeing trees and plants she now had an understanding that greatly surpassed her old abilities. She felt what they felt, she could see what they saw.

Sally tried to guess the time; it seemed to be about noon. Then she started to walk in the direction of her university. The forest had changed quite a lot she realized, so she knew some considerable earth time had transpired since she first joined with the tree. As she began to emerge from the forest there was not much she could recognize. The buildings were different, she could not recognize the automobiles as any she had ever seen before and when she arrived at the campus much had changed! The biology department was still, however, pretty much the same, biology departments are like that!

As she walked in the main building people were staring at her, in part, because her clothes were unlike anything being worn by the others. This made her feel a little uncomfortable. She made her way to the main administrative office, walked timidly up to the counter and asked for her favorite professor, Dr. Riches. “Who??” they asked. “Dr. Riches” she repeated, “he teaches plant physiology in Townsen Hall.” 

“Are you certain you are in the correct department young lady? There is no Dr. Riches in biology.”

Now Sally was worried! Had she been part of that tree for so long the entire world had changed? “What is the year?” She asked timidly. “Twenty one twenty two” several people replied simultaneously. “Oh my goodness,” Sally said as she raised her hands to her face and slowly slipped to the floor, unconscious.

Sally awoke in a white bed, in a white room with white furnishings. The brightness caused her to squint her eyes. She leaned over on one elbow and seeing a nurse asked “Where am I?”

“You are in the hospital young lady. You gave everybody quite a start in the admin building when you collapsed to the floor!”

“Is that what happened?” Sally asked as she laid back down on the pillow. “Am I still in the university?” 

“Yes you are, let me go get the doctor so you two can have a chat.”

The doctor walked up to her bedside smiling a wide friendly smile which put Sally at ease just a little. 

“Good morning, my name is Dr. Stephens, everybody calls me Steve. How are you feeling young lady?”

“A little groggy I must admit” she offered.

“Lets start out with your name,” Steve said as he invited the nurse to have a seat and fill out the appropriate forms.

“Sally Hemming” she replied.

“How old are you Sally?”

“Twenty three, and I am a student here, but nobody seems to recognize my major professor's name!”

“And, what is his name?” asked Steve.

“Dr. Riches” Sally answered, “Dr. R. Harvard Riches.”

“Well” said the doctor, “that is unusual because there has not been a Dr. Riches at this university for quite some time! When were you in his class?”

"Nineteen ninety eight."

“Whoa!” Said Steve, “that would be, let me see now – 124 years ago!”

Sally put her hands up to her temples and said “OH MY GOODNESS! How can that be possible?”

“As far as I know, Steve said, it is not! But, lets not worry about that just yet, lets focus on your health and get you situated.”

“Good idea” she replied.

After a series of tests Steve declared she was the healthiest person he had possibly ever seen! “How have you maintained your health?” Steve asked. “I wish I was as healthy as you are!”

“It's a long story” Sally responded, with a long sigh.

“I bet it is!” Steve replied but restrained himself from asking further.

“We found you in our records: Sally Hemming, you were a grad student, a very good arborist from what I have read. And then in 1989 you disappeared! There were dozens of searches through the forest and beyond, and a good many newspaper articles but you were never found.”

“And now I have been found” she said. “Or rather, I have found you!”

“Yes, so it seems” Steve smiled.

“I have arranged a place for you to live and while we get this all sorted out I have spoken with Dr Levine, the universities resident arborist to show you around. I am sure you two will have much to talk about. A great deal has happened in your area of study in the last 124 years!

“I'm sure” Sally replied.

Sally immediately liked Dr Levine, who was much younger than she expected. He must be truly dedicated to have achieved so much in such a short time she thought. He was a gentle unassuming soul who clearly loved trees as much as she did. “Please call me Norm” he said and they shook hands. They began to chat away as if they were resuming an old conversation. Walking through the campus, identifying various trees and shrubs they were oblivious to everything around them, save each other and the plants.

With each tree or plant they came upon Sally would lay her hand on the trunk or grasp the leaves.

Norm watched as she did this and could have sworn that she was actually penetrating the bark just a little but said nothing. After touching the tree Sally could go on at some length as to the health and history of each tree and plant. Dr Levine was dumbfounded but absolutely fascinated! They came upon an apple tree which was growing old and was no longer producing more than a few apples every year, Sally laid her hand on the trunk and quietly listened then she instructed Norm to plant roses around it, which he did. Not knowing why.

Lost in their chattering, time was slipping by. When Dr. Levine glanced at the clock tower on campus he declared “OH my goodness!, I was suppose to have you at the women's dorm to meet with Mrs. Spooner, of student housing thirty five minutes ago!” So off they went.

Mrs. Spooner was a delightful soul and gave Sally a brief tour of the facilities and showed her to a room which was to be hers for the time being. It was a lovely private room with a private bath and a mini kitchen. More than sufficient for a scientist!

Norm bid them adieu and invited Sally to come and visit his department in the morning where they could continue their conversation.

“Delightful plan” Sally said as she settled into her new abode.

After a very nice day together, talking of, what else? Trees. Norm took her to his favorite restaurant in the old part of town. Sally thought it odd that the “Old” part of town was all “new” to her.

Norm and Sally became very good friends, virtually inseparable. Sally was hired as an arborist and when word spread of her knowledge and sense of plants and trees the demand for speaking engagements became almost more than she could accommodate!

Eventually, as one might have guessed, Norm and Sally were married. On the morning after the wedding night as they sat having a cup of coffee, Norm said. You know Sally, I have never asked where you were for the last 124 years but If you are inclined, I would very much like to know.

Oh, replied Sally, laying her hand on Norm's and looking him squarely in the eye, believe me Norman, you would NEVER believe!

But -

He did.

PS – By the following summer the old apple tree that Norm planted roses around was producing more apples than anybody on campus could ever remember!

Breeze

The breeze feels fresh on my face

as it descends from the mountain.

Renewing my soul

on its journey.

I spread wide my arms and fingers

to grasp as much of its fleeting delight as is possible,

pausing in my walk

to admire it the more.

Where was it last?

What deer or fox was it caressing and singing to?

What will it’s next

duty be?

Hal Taylor's first published article was in Venture Inward, the journal for the Association for Research and Enlightenment (ARE). Hal has written an almost 300-page book on "How to Make a Beautiful Rocking Chair."

St. John of the Cross -- Captive in Toledo

In this stillness, I hear the cooing of doves, the fluttering of wings.

The words I uttered long ago now come back: ‘Existence is nothing.’

I pass through myself into God, and all I ever said of God is true and untrue.

The sense of who I am floats away like a string. Tonight, on my side,

Near the hole I have made in the wall of this closet, I hear a hiss of air,

I smell dirt mixed with rain. I want to see the sun’s light at dusk

As I once did, walking near a river, making notes of my thoughts of God.

No one knows that I drown in God.

Samuel Arizpe is a Roman Catholic cleric in his seventies with almost four decades of pastoral ministry in the Rio Grande Valley, the southernmost province of Texas, along the border with Mexico. He works part-time at a regional hospital serving elderly patients, and teaches English concurrent enrollment classes for South Texas College. His sacramental and pastoral experiences have deepened his awareness of the healing power of compassion and grace. 

The Creative Spirit

Your creative spirit 

moves with the 

universal spirit of creation 

and a dance follows.
 

Whatever you dream up 

naturally becomes 

more beautiful and raw

because it holds 

your unique essence.
 

The day-to-day life 

often centers around 

using the intellect 

to push through.
 

Self-expression allows you 

to drop into the heart 

and let it lead you 

to deeper places within 

that you may not 

have yet discovered.

Beena Patel is a writer, physician associate, and holistic wellness practitioner whose work bridges modern science and ancient wisdom. Her poetry collection explores holistic healing, personal power, self-expression, and spiritual growth. Through heartfelt storytelling, Beena inspires readers to reclaim authenticity, return to wholeness, and creatively transform life’s challenges into gold and wisdom. 

Music

Music!

What is it for you?

A gentle, soothing soundscape?

To put your soul at rest?

A vibrant, jazzy quartet

To enliven your spirit?

Or a sombre funeral march

Written by the likes of Chopin?

All of these can be conjured up

From the large alphabet of

Musical notes, combinations 

And harmonies that we

Perceive differently according 

To our previous experiences

All I can say is that music

Enriches my life; I am 

Quite at sea without it

It has become a staple 

In many a household

Whether when driving to 

Work, taking a relaxing 

Bath or jogging along to 

One’s favourite tunes

We tend to take it for granted

That it will always be there 

To cheer us up, to calm us

To stimulate our thoughts

For what does silence bring us?

Sometimes, also a sense of

Calm, a time to ponder and

To gather inspiration

I find it best when immersing 

Myself in nature, which has 

Its own sound world

The breeze blowing through 

The leaves on the trees

And grasses

The wind on the lake

The sounds of the birds about

The mooing of the cows nearby

It’s all music to me

What is it to you?

Do you know?

Or do you take it 

For granted?

Let’s not!

For music is to me 

Life’s balm and I am 

Grateful for such pleasure

In a tortuous world

A sunrise -- poetic and musical

In the same breath, thank goodness

For red skies and starlit nights

Surrounding our planet of

Infinite worth

Be at one with yourself and

Your music; whatever and 

Wherever it may be 

Hope Mendelssohn is a writer and musician based in New Zealand. She draws her inspiration largely from nature both physical and spiritual. Recently some of her poetry was published in The Poetry Project, a book of NZ poetry available from Amazon. Hope composes a great deal of spiritual music.