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Our Passing Existence

                        everything passes, everything changes ~ Bob Dylan

What I find precious is what I know to be brief. 

The seconds of breath that compose a cycle, the purple 

lilies climbing up the trellis outside the front door 

of my rented home, the curry I cooked and shared 

with my Buddhist Turkish neighbor. They say that 

in five billion years, the sun, in the center of this 

solar system, will run out of hydrogen. The Earth 

will grow cold by then, its geography unrecognizable, 

languaged by its slow separation. Everything passes, 

everything changes. Not just our sprouting lives 

which gasp for maybe a hundred years across 

canyons of dying stars, but also the taken for 

granted memories we assume will outlive us, by 

a lineage of seconds; the lover I greet daily arriving 

into my arms, the seemingly long stretch of war’s 

elegy, this obedient heart I claim as mine. To love 

you must already grieve. I keep praying that we may 

wake to the dirge of our passing existence. So possible 

and sad, so beautiful and real, so abundant with greed, 

so forgivable, so green. The glistening sun still singing. 

Determined to step into the eternal here. 

Mostly, to Hold One Another

                    after Danusha Laméris, "Small Kindnesses"

                    "mostly, we don’t want to harm each other”      

Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. 

Mostly, we just want to hold one another, to be 

held by the other. We want to know that our pain 

will one day slip, that our tomorrow has hopeful 

promise. That this body, and this life, are worthy 

of so much together. The headlines roar again; 

a gay man beheaded, a government paving its 

will, the steady beat of genocide, a forest 

battered by ignorance. I don’t bother to read 

the details. It’s all the same story; someone 

entitled exerts with forceful arrogance his body 

against the body Earth. #metoo, she weeps, 

in voiceless rage. Mostly, we just want to love 

another, to kiss away our days. To ride bikes 

with lovers along the Jordan River trail, where 

hundreds of swallows build their nests under 

a bridge. They hug their bodies to the wall 

regurgitating mud pellets. Mostly, all we want 

is a place to rest our heads under the night sky. 

Nestle in. Press ourselves into the Earth. 

Bhikkhu

                   n: an ordained buddhist monk,

                   a beggar, one who lives by alms 

You don’t need to put on a robe, renounce 

the luxury of a comforter, shave your head.

You don’t need to always be composed in 

measured mindful steps, or walk out the 

door with an empty bowl. All you need 

is to embody the spirit of a bhikkhu. 

Assume nothing is guaranteed. 

Humbly bow to whatever is given. 

Offer the spirit of gratitude regardless 

of what shows up. And then, after you’ve 

received enough, return home filled with 

harmony, and the strength of acceptance. 

Return freed, for maybe just this day, 

from the lash of desire, from the whip of 

ambition, belonging to the only certainty 

of your one life; 

                  you are not separate, not forever. 

Moudi Sbeity is the author of the memoir Habibi Means Beloved, and the poetry collection Alhamdulillah Anyway. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Orison’s Best Spiritual Literature. Moudi’s work focuses on themes of justice and liberation through a spiritual framework of compassion, forgiveness, and awe. 

Threads of Emptiness

A tear -- or a tear,
depending on your disposition --
glides down the page,

spinning golden threads
of sacred syllables,

breathing life anew,

and leaving an emptiness
that reflects
the nectar of truth.

Black Forest Gateau

The stillness is there, 

Under every rock, 

Even under the smallest stones, 

It watches silently,

If it could scream,

It would only whisper,

It was me all along, 

Sink into my velvety sponge.

Jacob Jochim is a philosophy and psychology postgraduate. He writes a scrambled mix of poetry, absurd and surreal fiction for children and adults, and non-fiction. 

Medium 

            Inspired by SUPERSTAR (Tiziano Ferro feat. Georgia)

My job description 

Is peculiar –

Provoking wonders 

without anyone noticing 

I am the superstar of

my own life

Despite the pain and

the black pants I am

Wearing on

the bleakest of days

Sometimes mania is

just a wrong word for my

really good mood.

When I am dancing

Everyone around me 

is smiling, too. 

Oh, they don’t know. 

Tanja Kummerfeld studied American and Italian Literature at the Universities of Hamburg and Delaware. She is currently on a journey and doesn’t know yet where it will take her. Writing and painting are ways of exploration for her. She is interested in the interactions of words and images and how creativity is a tool to foster healing.

Not Everyone Can Be a Saint

While in the desert

of awakening,

I led people through

the vajra storm with me,

to turn their deserts

into gardens,

iron into gold.

I took people on a journey

of transforming

hells into heavens,

to heal their inner demons,

but I realised I wasn’t Midas,

nor did I ever want to be—

not everyone becomes gold or garden;

not everyone can be a saint.

Let the Roses Become You Too

How lonely it is to blossom

when no one can see

or smell the bloom?

Get swept away by the wind;

let the roses become you too.

Petals are all the asteroids

in a solo afternoon.

Wisteria and glistening streams

take over my consciousness,

leaving me at one with the world,

like a goddess of wind

has rushed through the tombs

and everything is alive all at once.

I am a lover of beauty now,

as well as being the rose.

How beautiful we smell.

How fast our water rushes.

How tremendous is our laughter

lifting through the trees.

Julia Douglas-Mann is a poet whose work explores spirituality, mental health, consciousness, nature, and the search for meaning. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Edge of Humanity Magazine, Pocket Poet, and Pure Haiku. 

The Heart's Best Blood

In the end, I suppose, the heart’s best blood

Is much more like a river than a flood:

Flowing through meadows and around the bends

Over rocks and over mud until it finally descends

Into some unfathomable ocean where all of us

Are gathered in a final erosion we cannot comprehend. 

The gift is returned to the giver. And the sea

Sees us again as it did when we first began:

The salt in our veins offers this testimony.

And whether we have wed or shunned holy

Or unholy matrimony, there is something to be said 

For longevity. Something to be read in the river

And the brook. For as St. Augustine put it:

Nature is a great book written without ink. 

And I have been truly smitten by these thoughts 

I can’t unthink. In the end, I do rather suppose

My heart’s best blood has never been my own. 

It belongs to you, dear reader, my forever corazón.

Daniel Klawitter is a Denver-based poet, a religious brother in the ecumenical Order of St. Luke, and the lead singer/lyricist of the indie folk/rock band Mining for Rain. His book, Where Sunday Used to Be (Wipf & Stock/Resource Publications, 2022) won the Colorado Author's League Book Award for Poetry. 

Surely Mystery

If there is a hole in the pocket of darkness, a seed will seek mystery 

and her brothers and sisters willingly follow on the heels of mystery.

A mother sees into her newborn’s eyes and instantly knows her given name.

Mine had no such clarity; many weeks passed while my name remained mystery.

My desire for answers gathers like a herd of wild buffalo grazing.

Any unexpected noise and a thousand hooves stampede into mystery.

Tell me doctor, what will cure me of my aching desire for certainty? 

Nothing? Surely something can sooth my pain, perhaps a teaspoon of mystery?

So many strings to grab whose ends I cannot see. Loose ends tied to the unknown 

and the one golden thread I am careful not to lose leads me through mystery. 

Brothers and sisters, I too was once a seed born curiously uncertain 

of what I would become: still patiently waiting in unfolding mystery.

The Music Knows My Name

Tell me the names of the songs 

you like to sing, 

the songs you like to hum.

I will learn them, sing them 

to you, and hum them with you. 

So when you no longer re-

member who I am, the music 

will tell you my name 

and put us together again.

Mark Jodon is the author of two full-length books of poetry, Miles of Silence (Kelsay Books 2024) and Day of the Speckled Trout (Transcendent Zero Press 2015). Mark has work forthcoming in Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality & the Arts. He is an Iconoclast Artist (iconoclastartists.org) and serves on the boards of Image Journal and Performing Arts Houston. Mark lives in Houston, Texas. 

Grief

Where does grief reside?
Where in the pause, the sigh, the fear?
Does it flow in the blood, ooze from a cell?
Rip the vital organs with impenetrable sadness?

Where does it live?
Its very existence seems immortal.
Is it within the body, fossiled in the mind
or on the coattails of spirit?

There is no room to place grief in,
no shelf for it to sit on
no closet to contain it
Yet, its vapor, its touch, its smell, its sight
is just there. Everywhere.

Is grief born with our first breath?
the first cry as we catapult   

from the loss of one world to our next?

The grief of a baby to somehow find comfort

Comfort soothes the sadness

but the seeds of grief are sown.

Grief floats in expectations. Grief lurks in blame.

Grief pounces on insufficiency. Grief crawls in suggestions.

Grief strangles in anger and resentment.

Grief sobs in unrequited love. Grief suffocates the heart in loss.

Grief opens its eyes in faith. Grief is embedded in grace.

Grief is absorbed in love.

Dr. Michele Cohen Axelrod is a retired chiropractor and nurse. She believes that words are a quieter path to continue healing work for herself and others. 

The Calling Card

Right this way please.

The name of this rose

all giving love—

confounded

by our expectations of one another.

I’m sorry,

this is beyond me:

make you fit into my plan.

I don’t think this is what love is.

Well let’s go somewhere else,

the love that moves mountains,

and it doesn’t need the mountain to do anything.

Can we get there?

Let’s hope so.

Poetry writing and the spiritual path are partners for Donny Duke. Donny cannot separate himself from his poems. He meets the world there, whether or not it meets him. A poem, like a dream, is where he is. His poems and dreams come from the depths inside. 

Cold Shoulder 

Winter's cold

                   I can't hold

Winter shivers

           colder
 

                  To which side

from outside

           a crowd

Enrico Miotto lives in Virginia. He has an undergraduate degree in mechanical engineering. Enrico is admitted to practice law before the United States Patent and Trademark Office (USPTO) and in any Washington state court. He is presently an inactive patent attorney while working for the USPTO. 

Hyvä Hetki

Keveys, ilmavuus, hetki ilman agendaa,

sielu kuplii kuin Reimsin Heidsiec Monopole-samppanja 

tai lapsen ensimmäinen höyhenenkevyt potku kohdussa.

Hetki niin harvassa, että se on helppo hukata tavallisuuteen,

kiireeseen ja mukatärkeään

ja sittenkin elämä on vain näitä pieniä hetkiä, joita

vasta keski-iässä alkaa ymmärtää ajaa takaa

kun pian on jo liian myöhäistä saada kiinni

omasta hännästään, joka on huiskuttanut kyllä jokaiselle vastaantulijalle.

Tartun tartun

haluan rutistaa, puristaa kuiviin käyttää kaiken ja vääntää kuivaksi

vain minulle.

Ohikiitävän hetken olen kaiken keskiössä

Itseni arvoinen ja arvostettu.

Kunnes suru pyyhkii kaiken oppimani, omat odotukseni

huuhtoutuvat lattiakaivoon eikä minulle mitään muuta kuin

toivo seuraavasta. 

One Precious Moment

If you ever met the lightness, airiness of life,

that moment without an agenda when 

your soul bubbles like an expensive Reims Heidsieck Monopole champagne,

or the first butterfly sensation of a four-month fetus emerging into a baby.

Stop. 

Whatever you are doing since

you have encountered something rare, so easily lost in the ordinariness of life that it´ll be gone before you blink if you don´t

stop.

Hear me: those moments are Life itself, and the only thing worth chasing by anyone middle aged 

when in the nearest future, it´ll be too late to catch that tail of yours that has been eagerly wiggling for everyone but you for decades.

Here I am Carpe Dieming, crushing it between my strong arms,

like the nectar of life, this fleeting moment is just for me. 

Until the grief once more comes like countless times before.

But that bubbly moment 

undeniably existed 

as a first piece for my 50000-piece puzzle of life.

Toivo

Mitä on toivo, elämän eteenpäinmeno ja jonkinlainen patoutunut energia, jota

ei voi nahdä, tuntea, koskea vaikka kädet harovat ilmaa kuin tuulimyllyn siivet. 

Asuuko se lihaksissa, joita juuri herättelin vai suussa, joka maistaa kaksi mieluisinta makuaan? Mistä se tänään tuli?

Jos saisin toivostani kiinni, saattaisin sulkea sen rasiaan, jonka päällä on pöllön kuva. Eikä se unohtuisi sinne, mutten päästäisi sitä uloskaan. 

Mutta jotain muuta täytyisi päästää pois, sillä sellainen on periaatte: uusi sisään vanha ulos. Mutta mistä voisin päästää irti: onko toivon vastakohta toivottomuus,

vai saamattomuus, näköalattomuus, pelko. 

Miten niistä mistään voisi päästää irti? Suojastani, elämänmittaisista kerrostumista, jotka määrittelevät ihmisen minuutta. 

Voiko vain antaa mennä, odottaa tuulenvärettä, joka helmeilee ilmassa juuri minua varten. Pitääkö järjestää seremonia, huutaa koko maailmalle, kuinka elämäni on tässä tänään ja nyt järkkynyt raiteiltaan? 

Vai olisiko aika tunnustaa – edes itselleen – että tätä olen ajanut takaa kaikki ne vuodet, jolloin en tohtinut katsoa peiliin, räpäyttää silmiä, ottaa askelta, joka jälleen rikkoisi kaiken 

jotta jotain uutta voisi häivähtää. 

Mutta mitä on uusi? Vai onko tämäkin uudelleen keksitty pyörä ja paluu

johonkin joka on pitkään ollut olemassa. Heikko signaali iänkaikkisuudessa.

Hope

Burning sensation and energy that has zero opportunities to form a ball,

the kind that you picture in your head when thinking of all the achievements you have reached. 

Since then you have changed, or maybe the world you are allowing in, has.

Something subtle

is floating in the air, a bit annoying like the floaters your ophthalmologist said are harmless. But 

they grasped your attention in its entirety, held you hostage until you had them no more. 

Would it be possible to accept these seeds of new energy and let them find each other and others inside you

forming something new that eternity can whirl into recognizable ancientness?

And there´s you. In the midst of the energetic truth which doesn´t take anything away, does not free you but

lets you find yourself being accepted.

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 of the second language. The poems are not translations, but two variations of a certain mindset. Her dream is to get a long novel published -- in Finnish of course! 

God is

the flesh of stars
falling towards
distant miracles
beyond your reach.
 

This I say to you,
silent wanderer who
once held a small jar
on a shadowed hill
held it so high
and caught
the lighted trill
of a note and called it
 

God, great traveler
shimmering light
candle of hope
fading whisper
of a dream to be
in the hearts
of every soul.
 

You, silent wanderer
are lost
still searching,
still reaching.
 

Yet the flesh of stars
Is still falling.
The cup still
awaits you
on the shadowed hill
and God, the great traveler
shimmering light
will reach your heart
yet again
like a rising whisper
 

as he rises yet again
in the hearts of every soul.

Greg Wood is a southern cosmopolitan poet with roots in Virginia and connections to Birmingham, Alabama, and Amman, Jordan. He has been recently featured in Amethyst, The Lake, Dodging the Rain, and Eunoia Review, among others. Greg is the founder of the creative outreach group, Skylight.

Who Are You?

Who are You,

The One that reaches across the horizon

To tenderly hold my heart?

Your touch lifts the sun from the ocean floor,

Igniting the sky with the blush of love.

In your hands

My hard edges are chiseled away,

Until a luminous presence is revealed,

Expansive, fresh, alive.

Laughing, you dance with joy at seeing Yourself,

Made visible by your artist’s touch.

David Block is a poet and retired nonprofit executive director whose work explores themes of mysticism, spirituality, and the human search for divine connection. His recent poems draw from contemplative practice and devotion, seeking to illuminate the presence of God’s love in everyday life. His poetry also appears in previous issues of Soul Forte: A Journal for Spiritual Writing. 

Tragedy Defined

To incarnate
To live
And
To dissolve
As a human being

Without the experience
Of the magnitude
Of it all

Without knowing
The immensity
How hugely indescribable
Is the “I” in the ‘I am’

Without realization
Of the enormity contained
In a piece
Of human life 

Aloneness

A gift of time
A time for abidance
A blessing
Away from the sorority of comfort
Far from the brotherhood of emotional ease
The crowd of loneliness

Abide with me
Learn to love your time with me
Moments with me alone
Nurture my love
You are not alone
You are being held
Warmly in my arms 

For over eleven years, Afoma Mpi practiced law with a focus on international taxation and structured finance. In 2015, she began teaching Yoga and Meditation. Her meditation gatherings include soundbaths for holistic healing and are designed to help others cultivate inner stillness and awaken the clarity needed for conscious living. Reach out and learn more at AfomaMpi.com. 

Poem En Plein Air

Ocean, in broken shades of blue, 

blurs the horizon.

Dashes of unblended sap green and raw umber

create walls of emeralds, rolling pastures, and Hawaiian lovegrass. 

Loose brushstrokes of black puff clouds, shadowed in pink,

foretell rain against a cobalt sky. 

Gestural strokes of yellow, deepening into gold ochre,

flood the canvas with light.

Painterly layered words 

capture a fleeting explosion of sunset—

Kohala Mountain Road

Waterfall

Deep calls to deep

in the roar

of your waterfall.

River flows into river

in a rush

to sustain me.

Words tumble into poems 

in a current 

to carry me.

Deep calm— 

His song

sweeps over me. 

Birdsong

I hear a symphony

of birdsong as I rest—

in the between.

Saffron finches 

dipped in sunshine and sprinkled with orange 

sing a melody from the palm tree.

Rosy-faced lovebirds, 

a cuddling couple, 

chirp in harmony from a branch in the flame tree. 

A spotted dove

hums a solo—

a soothing coo-a-roooo from the plumeria tree.

Notes swirl

in the salty air

as virtuosos compose a score.

I must remember to tell Rilke

that birdsong is the rest— 

in the between. 

For Angie Kinman, writing poetry has become a spiritual practice through which she finds divine connection and healing since her daughter passed away on March 2, 2023. 

The Bells of Reckoning

The bells of reckoning toll.
It's not that they have been silent
but they have been falling upon muffled ears.
Blocked out by so much noise coursing through my head.
Noise, voices, sounds from near and far, deeply embedded for years,

familiar and strange, but enchanting and intoxicating nonetheless.

The bells of reckoning toll.
They have been trying to get through.
Helped by those who care for me and my angels,
but I am blinded by brilliant enticing distractions

meant to steal my soul and trap my spirit
in an endless spiral of destruction & despair.
Fooled into believing this is life, this is living,
this is the fruit of my labours, when in fact
it is the actual rotting of my core.

The bells of reckoning toll.
one last time before they fade and move on
to someone who will listen.
Will I hear them now -- at their loudest moment?
And use their sound to awaken my spirit and open my
eyes and ears to the light?

The bells of reckoning toll.
And yes, I hear them now! Finally!
What a glorious and rapturous sound.
It's a moment that has never before been heard so deeply, profoundly.
Like a revelation, an awakening, a realization of a higher power.
And so I surrender and trust in this power
to lift me and carry me forward to my truest destiny
And who I was always meant to be -- Love, Light.

So the bells of reckoning tolled
one more time and not in vain.
To save one more soul and do God's work on Earth. Amen. Angel.

Michael Wolch is a Winnipeg journalist, broadcaster, music industry professional, and writer whose lifelong passion for music, creativity, family, and community continues to inspire others. He is the creator of the Peace Cards Tarot Deck, inspired by compassion, spirituality, and human connection. Through his work and example, Michael strives to be a positive inspiration for his children and grandchildren, encouraging reflection, kindness, hope, and peace.