Welcome

Rhus

Near that multi-family housing you are fighting to expand

rhus erupts through three-year-old asphalt as if waiting

for the next pint of dog piss; the next slap

of the next bike tire; the next round

in the freeze-thaw cycle. It has no business

surviving.

                                    Surviving is its business.

Vrukolakes

We should be used to this by now. Thorns. Rods

in hideabeds. Nails in hands and in

coffins.

                 That song my mother sang with those

tufts beginning to swell like cold-season

grasses on the smooth unbroken soil

of her scalp (she hated wigs):

I get knocked down

but I get up again.

Basil

We can lead separate lives

as long as we have to.

I am just afraid that, next time,

the villagers will be sober enough

to remember where they left us. That

someone will bring a splitting axe

along with the icons and the basil

and those knife-heeled

red-bottom shoes.

Mara Inglezakis Owens dropped out of school ten years ago; she works in IT and lives in the

suburbs. She enjoys gardening, aviation, writing much, and publishing little.

Emptiness is more realistic

you claim

unhappiness stems from

being too intelligent

I can recognize the inclination

the sense of safety in arrogance

words like “loneliness” seduce

lure with promises of

insight and self-importance

the ability to disenchant the world

the desire to build tall buildings

in flat landscape

constructing Metropolis 

~Translated from the Norwegian by the author from her collection of poetry Moderne hengivenhet (Modern Devotion), 2019.

A love for cherries made me look for the perfect shade of red

to pat my cheeks, my lips

permanently blushing like a misbehaving child

a subtle assosiation to love

please see me as body

please see my soul through passion

girls in love with love always perish

or are cleansed by fire

Rest and be still

the thrills of existing are so many

first lesson: curate violence

a young boy taming aggression

questioning the statement:

freedom is ruthlessness

I used to resist femininity

as a game I couldn’t win

but now when you touch me

your beauty burns me

sweetly

like the eternal yes of Mary

finally I recognize the ugliness

of the voice that makes my soul small

I recognize accusation and bitterness

my angry hands when I'm yelling

a begging motion

Linda Therese Utstøl is a Norwegian writer. She has published two books of poetry, Mannen er vakker fra livet og opp (2014) and Moderne hengivenhet (2019). Her interests as a writer are honey, Catholicism, love, sex, femininity, masculinity, nature morte, God, desert sand, wine, bread, the ocean, the sky, light, darkness, beauty, virtue, and holiness. Learn more and support Linda Therese's work here. 

Lake Placid Evacuational

We spent a year

Driving in circles on Lake Placid

Getting our relationship

let’s call him Suit

good and drunk on IPAs

until he swayed and slurred his words.

Then Anthony Bourdain killed himself

and I thought—we’re next

But ours was homicide

He wore too formal attire for a boat anyway—not a fit

So we pushed Suit overboard

He was struck by another boat

and died on impact

floundering.

Shocked, we lashed out at the water

at time

appearing to be linear, courting regret

watched ravens ducking in the orange light

dragged him on shore

but he couldn’t be brought back

emptied his pockets of Chinese horses

matching keychains

meteorites

Nat Geos

and the letter where he invited me to dance

now waterlogged

concussed

a blatant memory

impossible to resuscitate.

I threw stones in the water

and got in trouble for that.

It was irreverent.

I wanted waves and boat rocking and forest fires

so I have to leave this lake

and it

finally

is leaving me.

Besides—we had to turn our backs—

Suit was an embarrassment, splayed out on the shore like that --

bloated

life leaving through his mouth.

The Tragedy of Losing a Friend

There’s no octopus on the left side of your neck

anymore

No sacred geometry off center on your crown

No beehive on the outside of your right hand

Nothing between your knuckles

whatever you said about living

which you did not do

ultimately

But you did love me once

I remember

over hand-rolled cigarettes

in my yard

Offering to come to Cali with me

like the ray of light you were

No chunky jewelry now

or gauges

jaunty hats 

or velvet jackets

Just Alt-J and Matt Maeson

on repeat

How we saw Parasite

to resist the onset of the lockdown

How you were in my bed

when the movers came to pack up my stuff

How I should have loved you better

and got a call instead

The moon fell in love with rock and roll

One night

the moon fell in love with rock and roll

so she watched him admiringly from the sky

each night

noodling his tiny guitars

and spraying audience faces with his artificial lights

until one night

she realized

I wish he loved me back

but he does not

and her big moon tears fell from the heavens

flooding the concert

but nobody cared

they just moved the after party

indoors

London

I dislike London

Endless press of well-heeled souls

One without water

Düsseldorf 

They walk among us

Like ghosts in need of housing

Mumbling to themselves 

Europe

Europe is just a

series of sweaty streets filled

with masterpieces

Irene Loy is a writer and improviser living in Salt Lake City. She holds an MFA in Dramatic Writing from the University of New Mexico. In 2023, Commonmeter Press published her first book of poetry, I’ve Named the Goddamned Ravens. She is currently a PhD Candidate in Creative Research with Transart Institute and John Moores Liverpool University. 

Triptych

Dusk snatches my day,

tucked in a crease of color,

whisked away, recycled,

disguised as tomorrow . . .

cold comfort when a piece of me is lost,

no surrogate between what I was

and will become,

mourning the passage of time

even as it’s being reborn.

*

Midnight manifests in basic black

glamorous with diamond tiara

of Milky Way pavé,

consorts with dark forces

or spirits from the dead.

Mascot moon waxes, wanes,

casts spells on ocean tides,

advances the calendar

as our days dissolve.

*

Dawn unfurls a red carpet,

fiery star in glorious attire

poised to strut the sky.

We rise to our feet,

pointed forward by design,

then face what we must—

knead the hours, shape each day

to bake in sunset's flame

yet no star guarantees

we will partake of the bread.

Originally from New York, Miriam Louis now lives in Washington, DC. Retired from teaching English as a Second Language, she devotes much of her time to writing poetry and has two collections of poems, increments and Crossing Lines. Her other interests include playing bridge and playing the piano.

The Timeline of Autumn

I reset memories of loss

as the fire festival 

blazes infinity symbols across

the gateway of spirits.

In my pagan ritual 

I steal a scythe

and soothe old carcasses

before harvest meals chime—

our clocks forward.

I close the cycle of my moon blood,

fold into the crevice,

and as the lights dim gently

of candles adrift—

I release my ghosts.  

Between the Wildflowers

Breathing in the essence of meadows 

I part the ivy overgrown on the stonewall 

and step into a hidden portal  

where purple tulips awaken my heart.

I watch wildflowers sway alongside

vanishing epitaphs and listen 

to frequencies of the cosmos

shift solitary episodes into joyous paths:

a walk through Central Park radiates 

smiles, as pink blossoms allow

our imagination to roar.

We soar along the highline in New York City 

as the sun reigns above singing sharks.

We witness 

a solar eclipse, 

comet, 

and our love 

atop the hills of Sleepy Hollow.

I become fluent in the language of fluidity

stirring images of my elixir box

into the cauldron of time—

existing even in our distancing—

vast and expansive.

We merge our souls into a tapestry

as we watch pumpkins rise in a glorious blaze 

towards the peak of Little Stony Point.

Under the Harvest Moon

I gathered pictures of pink crystals 

in my elixir box—for there is no potion

to conjure a mystical notion of love

a true embrace occurs when moonlight 

alchemizes my phantoms--

and I mesmerize the fates with my plea:

I want to fold and unfold 

our bodies in velvet sheets

beyond the dent in my mattress.

A physical space now appears 

tying those dreamy sequences 

where I rest my head upon your shoulder

and spill my Persian tears--

your touch allows me to be still

as the haunting of ghostings begins to fade.

Across the Autumn Equinox

we create our new dimension

as softness echoes with each caress:

in that rhythm of life--

Jack O’ lanterns blaze the night sky:

and our Harvest moon appears.

Caroline Reddy's work has appeared in numerous journals, and she will be teaching a creative writing workshop at The Poet’s House. Shake the Atmosphere to Reclaim an Empty Moment is her first book, published by Pierian Springs Press. For more information please visit her website: www.carolinereddy.com .

Vespers

Canonical office, sunset

evening light,

slant shafts of gold

trees glow within—

hummingbird long

sweet drafts

last meal

before dark

our street slows

lights flick on

the waft of soup

simmering

the owls, their call

and response like

chanting monks,

the ground

beneath my prayer

for peace, for calm

host for the sacred

we are one bone

aware, I pray

knowing well nothing

is separate

still, I pray

prayers are lies

words always fail

yet the urge is true

this, I pray

the call

I yield myself and am borrowed —D. H. Lawrence

this, the gift

to give over until

willingly taken

I wait

stars winking

plenitude inside

creation, a joining

thee and me

source and means

a seeming two yet

one in play

a labyrinth

this web of words

shivers rush

my back

the unknown calls

retreat hut

I don’t attend church

that stone-steepled place

my sanctuary is inside

an internal hut

I attend

on a regular basis—

not only on Sundays

in fact, I live there

rest in the big

luminous field

offer gratitude

breathe

listen

pray

Amrita Skye Blaine develops themes of aging, disability, and spiritual awakening. Her poems have been accepted by Soul-Lit, Braided Way Magazine, The Merton Seasonal, The Penwood Review, Poetry Breakfast, Delta Poetry Review, and the New English Review. Her first poetry book will be published by Finishing Line Press mid-2025.  

We Breathe Without Thinking

Most of the time

breath is just breath.

We breathe

without thinking until we notice

the sky breathing

in cirrus, cumulus, nimbus glory.

Breath turns dust

into trees and angels

and pebbles and sky.

We breathe our way

into deeper prayer

as silence welcomes us

into the unfolding of the mysteries

at her welcome table.

When dying lingers without death,

we hover, listening for birth cries

in the groaning

that clings to life, as pain

signals transition in the labor.

We hold our breath,

hoping our prayers will be midwife and friend.

We sigh to make space for the blessings.

We have held our breath so long

that it turns to light

when we surrender.

Stop, and revel, and remember

God’s first breath

and the groaning of creation

and our birth, then as now,

in this moment of awe.

A Path of Flour

Light sifts the growing wheat.

The child goes to the market with her mother

to get what they need. The wheat is ground

and ready to be made into bread.

The child wants to leave a trail,

a path of flour to mark their way home.

The mother knows they must hide each step

and be ready to run. When the pantry is empty

the woods become dangerous.

The woman makes bread.

The child wants to share.

The woman is strict: We cannot share our bread.

There is not enough.

Across the centuries, I hear the hunger

of my Palatine grandmother

struck by famine.

The years sift flour and the child grows.

In the new land, the bread is plentiful.

The little girl wants to share it

with all her friends.

She invites the whole world.

She shows me the path she left.

Across the centuries, stars turned to bread

and bread turned to stars.

My Palatine grandmother finds her way to me

in the words of consecration.

Blessed and broken. There is enough.

Hanna to Eli: You Have Never Heard

I have been pouring out my soul before the LORD. --1 Samuel 1:15

You did not try to understand

the sounds

coming from my body.

You have never heard ecstasy

or the rumble of rocks shifting and moving

in the heart

as Spirit pushes away obstacles

and smooths the path

into prayer.

This is not a language you choose

to understand.

You refuse to learn the words

for the stirring of water

for the womb of the mountain

for the mercy of God’s ear

pressed against the belly

of the earth.

You think this longing

pouring from my heart

is the voice of wine

stumbling through my body

into the awkward words of pleading

for more.

Listen! Hear my cry

for a child

to fulfill my prayers.

Bless me! Hear me!

Speak my name.

I am a woman deeply troubled.

Bless me! Hear me!

God opens my womb

as water and mountain

shift and move

into earth delivering

new life, new vows

mother and child

and a healed covenant.

Wendy Jean MacLean is an award-winning poet with four books of poetry and several commissioned collaborations with Canadian composers. Publications include Presence, Crosswinds, Gathering, Green Spirit, and Amethyst Review. She is a spiritual director and United Church minister from Ontario, Canada. She is the inaugural host of the Center Quest School of Spiritual Direction Poetry Studio.

Jesus Ruins Everything

When he’s invoked

He’s a loaded gun

Loaded with wonder

Fear

Love

Shaming

Boredom

Blaming

Bullets

Cupid’s arrows

Scorn

Puzzlement

A Rohrschach test

Changing appearance

For each observer

His name is Mudd

Savior

Hubris

Redeemer

Rapscallion

Sanctifier

Ultimate Poseur

Is Jesus worth anything in this world?

(People will only see what they want to see.)

A blot of ink.

Pity.

David Morrill Williams is a poet and songwriter-hymnwriter who came to these pursuits

later in life. He is a retired Program Director and Teacher of English to Speakers of Other

Languages for adult immigrant parents and international students. His poetry has been

published in Time of Singing, Tiferet, the Platform-Review, the Resistance Prays, Sensations

Magazine, The Gazette of the Church of St. Luke in the Fields, and the annual Riverside Poets

Anthology. He lives in South Orange, New Jersey, with his husband, the cellist and author

David Black, and their cat, Rawley.