Welcome

Tears wet the sea colour sky

(Ambergris Caye, Belize, July 2011)

Exquisite longed, ocean’s glass unctions

Crystalline spumes rhythms

Breathing zephyrous, hard tarpaulin blue peeling sky, butter sun

Clouds stamp white pain

Moon moon moon’s husk from Caracol’s heaven hung

Minaret gulls trill morning prayers up dreaming cream sand 

This sensual fronded heat, residue of creations

How the universe first loved.

The destroyer of worlds speaks with one thousand mouths.

I am nailed not to a cross but to time.

My holy see, I return.

I know why Jesus wept.

Robert Jacoby’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in numerous literary journals over the past four decades. He is the author of the novels There Are Reasons Noah Packed No Clothes and Dusk and Ember, and the memoir Never Stop Dancing. 

Bus and Flower Tissue

Now it’s time to talk about hummingbirds drunk 

on beebalm, about aerodynamics and bumblebees, 

how they swim through green sky, drink hosta

water, flap their wings two thousand times a second, 

their weight so lopsided, it's a marvel to watch 

them fly. And then, there’s this promise of rough 

tongues, the swarm of plump ants cleaning sugary 

sap off the bones of peony blooms, kissing 

maroon and pale green seams open. I wonder 

if this is true, if flower tissue,

like humans, bruises, feels the black and purple wound 

before it opens. I promise you sharp licks do hurt, dark, 

thick juice of blackberries is the hardest to wash out—

this stain of thirty-two years ago, my friend bled out 

quiet pink tissue onto some green vinyl bus seat 

in Italy. The life she chose not to have in some two-block 

town near Rome. The sweeping of this loop-shaped knife, 

she can’t remember. Her uterus, cleaned by steel, still 

speaks at night. It’s like this, this everyday living: unpetaling 

grief and ragged seamed sorrows with licks, baby soft, our 

own hand on our own heart, this baptism of clean water, sweet

heart, I am here. Then night, it's like this: the female bumblebee 

returns underground to her squatter’s nest, a mouse hole

left, made safe by compost, tender by dry leaves and dead 

living, resuscitates her prayers. In the morning 

she does what she always does with her short life, 

shivers warm, takes flight, cleans flowers and forages nectar.

Winifred Nimrod is a poet, spiritual director, and meditation teacher who authors the weekly Metta Letters. Her poetry appears in the anthology Something Inside So Strong: Women Writing on Resistance, Resilience, and Reverence and in Inscape Journal (Winter 2026 issue). She is the winner and an honorable mention recipient of the 2024 Eremos "Thriving Today" Poetry Contest. 

symbiosis

there is beauty

in the way water rushes over and around

unimpeded by jagged slabs of slate

that just their way skyward

at the root of the mountain

anchored and unbothered

by the water’s noisy flow

both rock and water

remaining true to their purpose

there is beauty

in the way water quietly sits

within the bowl of the earth

oblivious to reflections from the shore

dancing upon its surface

both earth and water

remaining true to their purpose

and there is beauty

in the way my body settles into stillness

how thoughts rush over and around

sending words and pictures tumbling

through unconscious space

indifferent to the measure

of my steady even breaths

Pamela Castelli considers reading and writing poetry an integral part of her "healing toolbox." Her poems represent a continuous healing journey defined by intergenerational trauma and resiliency. She works as a psychotherapist helping individuals heal from traumatic childhood experiences incorporating poetry, yoga, and meditation into her private practice. 

Meditation, with Cat

I have been trying to meditate,

to still my frantic mind, focus

on breath, catch a glimpse

of the infinite, vibrate 

with the universe, feel

compassion for all sentient

beings, even those 

I do not like. An acquaintance

who deems herself spiritual

asks me how my meditation

practice is going. I confess

it isn’t easy. I sit still, close

my eyes, with Zen music

to soothe me. I breathe

deeply, watch my mind 

wander, try to let go. 

A furry warmth rubs 

against my arm, my neck,

purring loudly. The woman

nods knowingly, tells me

she pushes her cat away.

I confess I can’t, let him 

distract me. You’ll

never learn to meditate

if you do that, she says.

I stroke his fur, vibrate 

with the music of his purring.

A wave of love washes

over me, carries me

to a far place

on a tide of peace.  

Joyce Meyers, retired lawyer and winner of Atlanta Review’s 2014 International Poetry Competition and the 2024 Blue Light Poetry Contest, has five published collections, including Twisted Threads (Kelsay Books 2024), an Independent Press Award Distinguished Favorite , The Way Back (Kelsay Books 2017) and Stray Moments (Blue Light Press 2025). 

Wake

Every day, a thousand things

Abstract and abrasive

Press down against me.

Signifying nothing, but with weight.

Bony elbows sticking in my ribs,

I swat at them like flies

and try to pin them down 

to ordered boards

Meanwhile, unsympathetic,

the beauties of the world

parade themselves before me,

Seeking prizes.

My eyes, a sulking child, refuse them all.

Lover, throw the covers off my mind

And fling the shutters open

So I, blinking bleary in the light

toes curled against the sudden cold 

Have no choice

but stumble from bed

To be astounded by the sunrise once again.

Tal Milroy is a poet and storyist living in Western Australia. Their essays and poetry have previously appeared in several publications including The Mozzie, Out In Perth, and Breakthrough Writing. Their writing interests include spirituality, sexuality, nature, and the endless complexity of human relationships, both within and beyond the self. 

Have you seen it,

The color of love?

Not with your eyes:

Only the soul can see

Such otherworldly things.

Still,

Maybe it’s the color

Of the eyes of God.

Bruce A. Vance is currently a writer of poetry only, living in Taos, New Mexico, He has published essays on nature as spiritual revelation and non-fiction books on the relationship between consciousness and mind. 

The Mirror

Now I see only a reflection,
An echo, a reverberation,
Of myself
And others since times of creation.

Pieces,
Fragments of different
Lenses,
Together creating
A cascading mirror

And as we brothers
And sisters draw nearer
With each dimension fitting
Into and developing
One another;
Interconnected

Goodness, love and kindness
Be mirrored and their
light be reflected.

The Almighty Pine Tree

You shall stand tall, like a tree
Firmly rooted against wind and squall
A steadfast pillar of light
That reaches the highest of heavens
And the utmost depths of the earth

A mighty Pine Tree with branches
Reaching as far east as it does west
And as far north as it does south
Your wings shall span the entirety
Of the earth
And all mountains, rivers, seas, and lands
Will be covered by Your shade

You shall attract a flock to nest on Your shoulders
From generation to generation
Your waving arms shall clap their hands
Welcoming and saluting all to dwell at your altar
A sanctuary in the shadow of Your wings
A home, a shelter
To bear the load of each and every element
The world has to offer

You are our one constant that always
Remains the same
A home sanctuary that keeps us safe
From harm’s way
And when we stray and fly away
You still give us a place to stay
A place to rest and lay down our stress
A place to behold Your beauty
From everlasting to everlasting
From generation to generation

And when the time comes for us
To become dust, may we lay in the shadow
Of Your wings forever

Durell Desmond is a postdoctoral researcher with an interest in oil spill preparedness in the Arctic. In his spare time, he likes to explore the whimsy found within nature, humanity, spirituality, and family.

Seen

What do you see when you look at me? 

Have I ever really been seen? 

Not for the masks I wear, 

Or the roles I play. 

But for the depth of who I am. 

The darkness and the light of my soul. 

The essence beneath the surface. 

All of me. 

What does it mean to be seen? 

There are so many viewers. 

So few who truly see. 

Who look at someone and recognize 

Their pain. Their beauty. Their truth. 

All in one. 

Who can hold the entirety of a being within their gaze. 

Who can look beyond their own reflection 

And see the soul standing before them. 

What happens when I am seen?

Do I tense up, heart beating fast, 

Shrinking from this intimate, vulnerable moment? 

Do I long to be seen, yet also fear it? 

Do I put my guard up and run away? 

Or

Can I allow myself to soften and meet their gaze, 

The truth of my being opening to one who truly sees me 

And can hold me too. 

Walls crumbling, tears falling, 

A weight of relief, of emotion set free. 

Safety. 

Release. 

Validation.

The moment of being seen by another. 

And allowing. 

It is transformative. 

Stirring an awakening of the soul. 

Yet still, something lacks. 

Can I only see myself through other eyes? 

Wondering what they think of me, 

Arranging myself accordingly. 

I am who I think you think I am. 

Endlessly searching for outside validation 

To tell me who I am, how to be. 

Relying on another to make me feel whole. 

Until I ask the most important question: 

Can I see myself? 

Turn my gaze inward 

And explore the depths of my true nature. 

Grow quiet and ask the questions within: 

Who am I? 

What do I long for? 

What am I afraid of? 

What is true for me? 

Be still and listen for the whispers of my soul. 

Peeling back layers. 

Navigating the dark, murky waters of my unconscious. 

Parts of me frozen in time. 

Then a light shines through, 

Expanding my perception, my being, 

Illuminating what I once could not see or hold. 

Surrender. 

Freedom. 

Acceptance. 

Peace. 

The moment of seeing myself. 

And holding her, too. 

For when I truly see myself, 

I sense with all my being. 

I am held. 

I am whole. 

The masks disappear, and I know me. 

I remember. 

I am both the see-er and the seen. 

What do you see when you look at me? 

What do you see when you look at you?

Kali Brockunier is a writer, certified life coach, Reiki practitioner, and MBA whose work explores spirituality, motherhood, self-discovery, and healing. Her writing draws from personal experience and contemplative practice, exploring authenticity, inner transformation, and the complexity of the human experience. She lives in New York with her family.  

Shelter 

Come home.

The door is open

and I’ve stained the windows with sunset

to welcome you.

Music, the evening scent of flowers,

soft shadows and filigreed light --

everything you remember,

everything you’ve forgotten

is still as it was, the way you loved it

before words. 

I can feel your weariness at distance

and I assure you

there is no distance between us.

Inside, outside, the same warmth and 

beckoning, promise of comfort.

Approaching, arriving, indwelling –

all the same.

You and your strenuous, exhausting doubts,

your exoskeleton of opinion --

leave it all here by the door,

you can pick it up again tomorrow.

Just come in and rest now.

Let me love you.

Cindy Myers was a screenwriter for television and indie film, as well as a Hospice Musician providing music for terminal patients. Currently, she’s collaborating with artist Hilary Saner on a book of meditations inspired by the Liturgy of the Hours. Her poem “Martha” will appear in Amethyst Review in November 2026. 

A New Dawn is Rising

A new dawn is rising, after an eternal night.
A new dawn is rising, the end is in sight.
It will take some time to adjust to the light.
But a new dawn is rising, after an eternal night.

~~~

The darkness had such a strong persistent hold
enveloping every corner of my mind
wrapping tightly around my body
carving its way deep into my soul
and I didn't even know it was there.

And I was constantly suffocating myself.

It seemed the night lasted so long
and I guess I got used to the dark sensation
Living as though it was normal, and pretending
I was well adjusted.

And most people believed the veil and the masks I wore.

But a new dawn is rising, after an eternal night.

From a young age I knew and I longed to rip open my chest.
Grab my rib cage with both hands and pry it open,
releasing the heavy burden, the shame, the pain
because I wanted to breathe and feel joy and
revel in the glory of life.
And finally a new dawn is rising, after an eternal night.

It hasn't come without pain, it's not a gentle dawn. The sun first had to emerge through thick fog and clouds, but it persisted and I can finally see the spectacular colours of sunrise now, as a new dawn is rising after an eternal night.

Michael Wolch is a music-business professional, author, presenter, and facilitator. He is the creator of Peace Cards, exploring reflection, connection, and personal growth. Michael presents to men’s groups and community audiences, drawing on storytelling and music-industry experience. He loves his family, nature, and animals, and values meaningful connection, compassion, and peace. 

Through

Love is not something we possess,

nor something that happens to us.

It is a condition we briefly become capable of.

Perhaps this is what confuses us:

that we ask love to remain

when it was only ever a moment of readiness—

a trembling attunement

in which two lives happened, for a while,

to be open in the same direction.

When this openness closes,

we mistake its absence

for something taken.

What has changed

is the inner weather.

Love lives where beings are permeable.

It asks for no guarantee.

It does not bind—

it passes through,

as wind through a field that cannot hold it,

only respond.

We suffer because we demand solidity

from what was never meant to harden.

We try to keep what was movement.

We turn vibration into weight.

And so anger forms—

not as fire,

but as stone.

A condensation of feeling

that no longer knows how to move.

To carry this stone is to narrow oneself.

It fills the inner rooms.

Nothing else can enter.

Even grief loses its voice there.

But love—

if it returns at all—

returns lightly.

It is not heavy.

It is not faithful to duration.

It is faithful only to aliveness.

It comes as vapor,

as shimmer,

as a color that exists only

because light and distance allow it.

You cannot grasp it.

You can only make space.

So the task is not to accuse,

nor to defend,

nor to bind another to the moment

they once shared with you.

The task is more difficult

and far more solitary:

to lay down what has grown dense,

to loosen what has clenched,

to become again a place

where something subtle might pass through.

Do not ask love to stay.

Ask yourself instead

whether you are still spacious enough

to receive it.

For love does not leave us—

we fall out of its range.

And when we learn to walk lightly again,

it may pass through us once more—

not as before,

never as before—

but as breath,

as warmth,

as the quiet knowledge

that nothing living was ever meant to be owned.

Chris Howard is a poet and sound artist based in Comfort, Texas. His work explores interior states, grief, impermanence, and transformation through contemplative and visionary forms. He is the author of The Resonant State (Resonant Press, 2026).