Welcome

Novena

I.

O big machine 

that I have been traveling in since 

5 a.m., please take all us souls sitting 

in rows above numinous city lights that look 

the same from 30,000 feet high no matter coast 

and deliver us safely 2,186 miles from where we started 

to a plot of land built on basement rock south of Lake Ontario.

II.

O my brother, 

this delivery of myself from coast to coast 

is not working for me anymore when I would 

much rather be sitting simply by a window and telling you about the 

Mexican whip-poor-wills that skitter from branch to 

branch on the desert willow, how they congregate, how they 

seek communion, how they are wholly offerors, calling to mind 

the drive we once made in a rented minivan, 

389 miles through fallen beech leaves when we missed 

exit after exit after exit before we realized we were never 

going to be where we wanted to be.

III.

O ghost light, 

O ephemeral will-o-wisp 

that is supposed to illuminate the way, 

where are you?

And why is belief in you 

all the evidence I have left that there are 

rooms beyond these rooms, 

a promise of eastern redbud blossoms when we land, 

a miracle of space in which we all might meet again.

IV.

O flight I live inside, 

where the bleed air sounds as hollow as 

the wind coming off Lake Ontario in winter, 

making me feel otherworldly, free-form, as if I don’t even know 

which way earth is anymore, as if I might be able to 

live inside you forever, 

lulled by your rhythm, 

in love with oblivion.

V.

O sun that has still not risen, 

you are also missing 

from my memory of a young man 

wearing a wool mackinaw in warm weather, 

and your absence also feels profound,

as if it will be everlasting.

VI.

O flight, 

O birds, 

O Mexican whip-poor-wills that I cannot see, 

that are no where near me but that I believe are somewhere out there resting 

on a low branch, rousing your feathers into realignment—which of you

is the god who will tell me everything is where it should be,

and who will share with me your divinity?

VII.

O elusive first light, 

O will-o-wisp,

O sliver of new day, 

all I ask for is a glimmer at the horizon line, 

anything to pretend night was never here and yet—heed this—

night is magnificent, 

the way it comes out of the depths of its opposite and

spreads itself thousands of miles in an instant 

to let us know there is no greater form of worship.

VIII.

O my brother, 

O your divinity, 

O the way you 

moved through the world for so many years without me 

when I would have given anything to sit simply by a window 

and tell you the body has a way of speaking slowly at first but then 

eventually it begs 

to be brought back to its place, 

which is how you sometimes find yourself 

traveling toward an expanse of bedrock 

you once were glad to forsake.

IX.

O big machine,

please hurry through this never-ending predawn purgatory

to the expanse of land south of Lake Ontario which is still miles away 

from this confining 9 x 12 window and yet which is still the only

deity I have ever known, from which he and I were both sown, to which only

one of us returns. 

Amy Schmitz's first collection of poetry, Border Crossing, was published in 2018. Amy's work has been published in the Westchester Review, Gyroscope Review, The Connecticut River Review, High Plains Literary Review, Sugar House Review, San Pedro River Review, Borderlands: Texas Literary Review, Louisiana Review, Askew, Poetry International, and elsewhere. Amy has an MFA from George Mason University and is a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Cape Verde, West Africa. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, USA. 

Sound

on mute

I covered my mouth with your

Silence

and

translating silence

You become

Sound

Passing

appearing and disappearing

I Least Expected It

I took your word
your eyes smiled truth
and your lips cosigned it into fact.

I found your voice waiting for me
in a miscellaneous file on your cell phone
they returned to me, seven days after you
made your departure.

No last kiss
No final hug

No itinerary
No written note

for me to chart your journey or whereabouts.

I took your word
your silence loud and clear
leaving me behind when
I least expected it.

Shadow Play

I played a game of chess with my shadow

until the sun took its leave

I kept score on a matchbox
I confiscated from the hotel bar

In the company of silence
I wait for the sun to finish its respite

before my patience wears thin

and my bones cry uncle

My shadow, you, and I

agree to postpone our game

until the sun promises to 

return the same time,
same place,
tomorrow

My Concubine

Fingering the ring on my finger, I remember

how you never removed it from your hand,

no matter what.

I admired how you never worried about losing it.

Now that it has become my concubine in your stead,

I spend much of my time making sure

that it is still on my finger, safe and secure in your absence.

I try not to think of what will become of me if it

should fall prey to some unknown circumstance

without my knowing.

I only hope it will remain with me

until I choose to set it free.

E.J. Wade is an award‑winning poet, author and Pushcart Award nominee whose work appears in major Appalachian and national literary journals. She holds a doctorate in Education and master’s degrees in Appalachian Studies and Creative Media Practice, reflecting her deep expertise in literature, culture, and educational practice.

Birdwatching

It’s only a jay, I say—

as if June’s drought

and azure wings

aren’t enough, and

seeds of piñon pines

wing themselves

across a desert—

a desert that at sunset

makes constellations of dust

from the embers of the day,

and demands the crested

and the crestless learn quickly

to turn twigs

and shredded bark

into a kind of home.

Forgive me.

Tim Raphael’s chapbook, More Earth Than Flame, was a finalist in the 2025 Slapering Hol Press Chapbook Contest, and his poem, "Prayer of a Nonbeliever," was a Pushcart Prize nominee and won Terrain.org's 2024 poetry contest. His newest poems will appear in the forthcoming issue of Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment. 

I Built My Own City

and lived in its ghostly presence.

I walked along, creating souls.

Within that city, I was not hinged

to her memory.

I am Trying

to explain the reason. I wanted

to tell a story that held her memory

in a tight grasp. Knuckles flexed -- I wanted

to never let go.

It tears you apart.

You have to let go or it tears you apart.

Note: These poems originally appear in Sheffield's poetry collection Underground City (2026) and are reprinted here by permission of the author. 

Tommy Sheffield is a disabled, neurodivergent writer who lives in Washington, DC, where he teaches high school English in Southeast DC. His poems, stories, and essays have been published in ucity review, Adelaide, Sanitarium, and a number of other magazines. His chapbooks From Whom We Trace the Bones, Ashore, Where God Has Gone, and These Things Are Often Sealed Within were published by Voice Lux Press in March 2022. He has served as the Poetry Editor for Stillhouse Press for a number of years, editing and publishing five critically acclaimed poetry books, and helping to oversee new projects. He is a co-founder of Shiversong LLC alongside Megan Merchant.  

A Thousand Normal Days

The Creative

Like stained glass

yours is a language

of deep hues—

ruby, cobalt, amber. 

Your reverence for 

a single ray of light

compels you 

to serenade eternity.

Your painted light

breathes on walls,

fully human,

completely alive.

~~~

A childhood

confined to twilight

taught you that

longing 

is more important than

having.

Into the deep well

you tossed

shimmering tokens—"Do I . . .

catch your eye,

belong,

matter?"

~~~

Sometimes you

count the days

other times you

weigh them. 

The beauty you create

is a prism of

suffering and love

refracting each

until

tears

become

jewels. 

~~~

Love lost

to the lie that

if your demons

take flight

your angels

are sure to follow.

The shadow of death

can't darken

the promise of

connection, 

imagination,

being seen. 

~~~

Feel the 

Earth's rotation.

Rejoice in the

rising and setting sun.

The fruit of your spirit

is a long goodbye

woven throughout a 

thousand

normal

days. 

"A Thousand Normal Days / The Creative" is Landon Johnson's first publication of any kind. He writes because he finds it the most effective way to organize his chaotic thoughts and feelings. 

Κόσμος

Good in Ging’ Ham cloth—

cold comin’—

Callin’ ta Son.

Sung’um slung slack-ed

To floors and odes.

And bird whiles a- fallen’

From the skies above.

On stars,

and ropes spun

Ta holem’

once to fly flung—

broken.

There—

red pots ta boils—

With sharp-ed fins pierced—

Lids undone and arch-ed,

a fyars dowsed,

By words—

by waters.

But Perfect flint’d faces,

smile.

Where from darkened places,

beyond.

Filled with fins and words,

and waters.

Ta places by rope-ed hands—

Unbound.

And from Ging’ Ham thread—

Birds will fall from skies.

Where Sones abide,

where rivers fly.

Hung for eyes.

And words.

And waters.

Portuguese

Un’a came—

Whéthe the slép’n fell,

While’n ōurs süng,

früm the Sön.

Und dem swëpun chile,

still kno’n all to be known—

Then, there were stars awhile,

wait’n for oportün ta fall—

To birth.

An’a whén th’m earth’n hearts brün,

there whéreh them people’s cry’n.

Born’n we call’n,

born’n brün’d from Sön,

and fyard wood.

Brün-ed we are,

them people.

Then mak’n uns

Whéthe solemn’d unds,

We cry.

Fyre:

White palm-ed peoples come,

sanded brown and earthun cracked—

Poles raised.

To see the Son—

Vein’d and hymns unsung’n,

they come.

To beat,

and pray.

There are dried strips,

hominy—buckskin.

There are fish planted.

children—skins.

And no one leaves.

And no one cries.

Where all are walkun.

Where they come to lie.

Where is them fiyard ones?

Where is them?

With sōōt-en faces and crōw-ed eyes.

And black-un tongues?

To sing.

To sigh.

They are fork-ed.

We are clove’d.

Mask-ed to darkness.

Where smudge sage-ed grows.

And white palm-ed peoples come.

dancing.

Poles.

And Sun—

Oats:

The beautiful ones go,

as silt-ed salt-un waters rise.

wanting depth—

they cannot come.

There are garnet stones,

and opals—

Flashed to heaven,

where clouds ache for reflection,

and wash themselves in rain.

There are hands here clasped.

Lips cracked and anchors held.

Waiting for water,

hoping for alabaster.

Praying for land and not sea.

—But the beautiful ones go on—

With wind-ed cheeks,

and whit-ed noses.

With little grace

but redeemed by color.

And sull-un swords for words,

fall fleeting from blue’d lips.

And masses cry with cupped hands to water—

“Give us rain!”

“Give us rain!”

“Give us stones to praise!”

“And oats!”

Paint-ed they fall,

ash-un blue and covered.

Hold-un firm to one and two.

Eyes rest-ed, waiting for night.

—The beautiful ones go on—

With rust-ed grains.

With wave-ed hands.

And sinew stretched and white.

They are perfume’d, bless-ed, and polite.

But ash’d blue they lay—

ash’d blue they sing.

“We long for rain”

“We long for rain”

“Stones to praise”

“And oats”

Jason Filbert is a husband with four children. He works as a pastor in Naples, Florida, USA. Jason feels that his work endeavors to understand the space between southern folklore and American identity.

Renewal

Running towards renewal

That old rugged cross

It is the best this world has to offer

Like solitude on a rainy day

A cyclone blows in the streets

As the winds wash you away

Tired of walking in rain-swept streets

Settle down here before it drives you insane

In your life, you just don't hesitate

To drive the pains away

When you struggle

Life revolves and sways

Trading a cross for a crown

Living for Yahweh

Void of any frowns

It is my life story

Richard McClellan was born in Yellville, Arkansas (USA). He served in the U.S. Army, and has traveled the world including Japan, Korea, Portugal, Italy, Canada, and most of the lower forty-eight United States and Alaska. His favorite place that he has visited is the Azores Islands in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. 

Author’s Note on "Silver Trains"

A reflection on how ordinary moments can open into midday reverie.

Silver Trains

Not long to stay,
our late June days.

Sweet summer rains
race on the pane,

small silver trains
down these lost lanes.

Cold city embrace
in cement encased,

a numb frantic pace,
left without trace

to a newfound place.

Our stories begin,
unknown from when—

petals loosed in wind
twist, twirl, and spin.

Red dust and kin.

Long have I roamed
in high wind flown.

Deep in the loam,
a new sprout shone:

Humble path home,
with end not shown.

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. 

Shades of Sorrow

Elbow stuck on sill, her knuckle-propped chin

Glued next to a vase overflowing with dead. 

Unpetalled stalks, she is piqued by the loss.

She ponders the difference between deep

Sadness and its miserable cousin 

Melancholia. Sadness hides no dread

Never outdoes itself, a light kiss, 

Tears stop, briskly dry. Melancholia seeps 

Into bones, scars outlast. If gifted 

Flowers arrive with fond note she will return

Their pre-skeletal poses before they weep.

But to forget the note and at last lift

The spirit, she strolls slowly through the garden,

Flowers upon flowers, lets fragrance pass.

Pramod Lad was born in India and has a Ph.D. in biochemistry from Cornell University. He was a scientist at the National Institutes of Health. His poems have been accepted in Wilderness House, Eclectica Magazine, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Litbreak Magazine, Amethyst Review, Soul Forte, Neologism, Verse Virtual, Umbrella Factory, Raven Review, and elsewhere.

Cuban Tavern

Cigar tavern.

Silently screaming 

"Come, come whoever, you are"

No questions

Just QUESTIONS.

Lit!

Puffing infinity.

Eyes 

Wide shut.

Truth becomes 

relaxed

Waltzing through

Time

Puffing with friends

All searching for 

THE FRIEND

i . . . came.

i . . . saw.

i . . . was conquered

Will 

Return

Faisal Sheikh is a poet. 

A Perfect Sacrifice

What would you trade? To be worthy? 

It is a great sacrifice, 

For the one who makes “my son” the answer. 

The one who climbed up the hill, his hand speckled with age. His own son’s hand felt small in his, clammy from the walk, but not with doubt. 

“My son" is the boy who cried out, who begged, who looked the angel in the face and wished he could say thank you, thank you for saving me. His own father was holding the knife. 

The boy had seen many sheep slain that way, 

Many sacrifices to their god. Haven’t I always been good? 

His own father was acting funny, gruff, angry. So that it didn’t seem a jest when the boy himself was placed on the altar.

And it happens twice! 

The boy cries out, please, no, but this time there is no angel. His father watches. He doesn’t care to stop it. 

A crowd jeers as the boy bleeds. His powerful father chose it for him. 

But did anyone think to ask Mary? Did anyone think to ask Sarah?

Jules LeFort is an academic librarian, writer, and daydreamer in Nashville, Tennessee. She collaborates with trees to write stories about nature, the self, and occasionally, sorrow. She is currently working on her first novel.