Welcome

rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham

Original GodFace to face bestows core/openly;
where it doesn’t die it’s undyed by [this]
    scenery.   No mere monument to it can
actually be : what it looks like looking at
mind mirror(s) stainlessly;
no go-between [your] core
                                       & blissful
                                       bosom God
                                                               body. 

perfect penetration

Perfect penetration of skull center(s)
edgelessly : is already one deLight
elixir unity, unexpelled from Eden &
in-hearing silently...holy hollow(s)
                                            ‘tween the temples
                                             mating God
                                                                      body. 

color one

If GodFace has a color
it’s where atoms are empty,
self-realized where I AM is
one color : clarity, unstained
linguistically . . . empty atom
field Garden E stability,
secret mantra access
inner-hearing silently...
color one embracing
GodSky/mindcloud harmony,
each one intimately : deLight
absolutely dry
                         as sunshine
                               undersea. 

say so in a syllable

Naked meaning skullvase wisdom
root/blooms secretly, open secret smiling
at word/thought dependency.

So say so in a syllable!

                    AH
(pronounced silently).

Skull hollow island...of no coast!

And on it—
the LifeTree. 

Ken Goodman is a practitioner of inmost alchemy (manifest as poetry). He does this in Cleveland. 

Dust

A vision of motes of light
floating above us
as we hold hands
breathing the innocent
air of apples
and from afar
drifting toward us
a sound
the wind perhaps
or a gentle hiss,
whispered foreknowledge
we would turn to dust.
But who would know
what we knew
before the tree
before dust became being
what we had known
a world perfect in peace and love
without sin 

Pramod Lad was born in India, educated at King’s College in the UK, and completed his PhD in Biochemistry at Cornell University. He was a scientist at the National Institutes of Health. His poems have been accepted in The Examined Life Journal, Right Finger Pointing, Omentum, Eclectica Magazine, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Umbrella Factory, The Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Pennine Platform, Litbreak Magazine, Amethyst Review, and Creations Magazine.  

What Moss Knows

My poems are hermits
dwelling in deep woods

They reside wherever
your trail of words ends

When you tire of trying
to follow them,
they appear

Beneath all
that’s written or said,
let us cross together
this silent page of trackless snow
that leads to where
they live

Only moss knows
how many stepping-stones
it’s taken their stillness
to get here

Writing Poetry Is

love
for finding
words
that are
world

word
world

where else
can one letter
change everything—
turn what you
started out with
into something
larger?

poet—
a person who longs
to spell world
using all
the letters

none left out
not one

a poet’s job—

penning
what a fifth season
looks like

finding words
older than
God

God

is every poem
I’ve ever written

but mostly
the moments after

when God and I
step back

arms over
each other’s
shoulders

and read
the poem
together

then God laughs
and I laugh

and, as if surprised,
God asks about
the poem

Now where
did that come from?

in my
voice

Let Us Give Thanks

for forests who remember us.
Woods we wandered trusting trees for trails.
Paths we prayed to no less than a god for guidance.
Trunks who rooted us in the years
of standing still it takes
to be more deeply grounded
spouses, parents, friends.

And for Buddha, who was right:
To understand everything
is to forgive everything.

Life and landscape,
language and lament,
is there anything
we don’t inherit?

Listen—
what is Sibelius’ Andante Festivo
if not this sunrise
set to music?

Gratitude,
if not praise for this and every bird
who doesn’t land long enough
for us to name it?

Daniel Skach-Mills has been published in Sufi, Sojourners, and The Christian Science Monitor. He has received finalist awards from the 21st Annual Writer’s Digest Book Awards, Next Generation Indie Book Awards (2013/2015), Oregon Book Awards (2012), and, in 2018, Body, Mind, Spirit Book Awards and The National Indie Excellence Awards. 

Hieroglyph

1942

Fifteen minutes between hot crossed ankles and curlers. White

enameled single bed. You unclose the window, reach out 

into the thickening sun. 

A laborer is passing in the street. Tall blond man stripped 

to his undershirt and trousers.

                                    Schoolwork on the secrètaire beside you. 

Prehellenic cultures. New binding smell musk-tart like rose 

gerania in the windowbox between you and the 

sweat descending through those rough alluvial planes; 

the armpits, veins in elbows, down 

the tendons in the forearms

to the stars.

Espalier

1942

A different film. The kind that plays only

in your head. 

          He wears riding boots 

like an Englishman, grey-green 

jodhpurs, and a neolithic 

rendering of a hurricane 

around his upper arm. 

You never write it down. You can’t forget:

Blue eyes hook yours through the half-rolled-down

window glass and the scarf beneath your chin

—the scarf constricts. The thick 

of his neck.

                    He sits 

cross legged on a bench 

in the roots

of an oleander wired 

to a razor-topped

wrought-iron fence. 

He puts two nicotine-stained fingers to his lips.

He whistles for you as you pass.

What Exactly Did You See?

1942

Big black car astride the gangplank. Aunt Lena shocks the driver;

her foustani and her long, dark, island legs. She sits down 

next to him. I haven’t been in Athens 

in a decade. 

                     He knows who her husband is.

Back seat. Frictionless and hot as baths between 

the alligator-hide train-cases. You whisper 

in your schoolgirl French:

can you fall pregnant just by looking?

Flora flicks mantilla lashes at the bench seat.

Aunt Lena lets her sweat-slick neck lift when she 

laughs. You know she wants to ask but 

Flora says:           It depends. What 

exactly did you see?

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.

Floating Free

Letting go of that which binds,

floating free . . . floating free . . . 

Relaxing heart and mind,

Aah . . . the soul can just be.

Spaciousness arises 

with a choice contained therein:

When a new mind state surprises

I can witness or dive in.

Ram Dass said crossing over 

is like taking off tight shoes,

May I learn before I’m clover

letting go is not to lose.

Less is more and we are so 

much bigger than we think,

Could it be surrender

is the final missing link?

Maybe we can get a taste 

of touching the blue sky

by feeling into what it takes

to "die before you die."

And so brave soldiers hear the call:

unlace those worn out boots,

Risk it all and let them fall,

May we reap new fruits.

Grand Opening

People say there's no glory

unless you can always save face.

Spirit tells another story

of opening to Love and Grace.

I’d fly on an angel’s wing

to launch your Grand Opening.

To free your spirit to sing

I’d do anything.

Breakfast in bed I'd bring,

pancakes and everything,

read you the Tao Te Ching

and then some Zen, then

after some tea a page

of Rumi or psalms of praise.

We'd sing "Amazing Grace" for days,

your heart ablaze.

There are so many ways

to turn toward the One and gaze.

To put that Light on your face,

I'd go anyplace.

Love is the Way

The sages say that love's the way,

including the forgiving of what makes us stray.

So much to feel to keep it real,

Being with “what is” seems to be the deal.

So much to see to be more free

in this wondrous journey from me to we.

I pray to feel the grace to kneel

and touch with love what needs to heal.

So day by day and come what may,

forgive and love, this seems the way.

If you agree please join with me,

with Love and Grace our company.

Lynn Tanny, age seventy, lives in a Florida nursing home and is 100% bed bound. Formerly a systems analyst for thirty-five years, she is determined to not only survive the nursing home experience, but to thrive, as she studies homeopathy and spirituality and creates poetry, essays, and digital art.  

How to End the World

Hephaestus

Can you face this

Heat, one more day?

Can you keep hammering

Sparks across the night?

Your palace lit like a lantern

Above the clouds, floating

On the promise of creation,

Of expansion through fire,

Humbly I ask you to breathe

What you create in full, and try

To imagine what influence

You wield over our world now.

We worship you. We build

As if we had your power.

We create as if everything

Were permanent. And yet

Nothing quite is. Nothing

Quite lives beyond age;

Could you build us

A world in which

Waste is not

The deciding

Principle?

And so of course what we think we want

Is not what we want.

Could you build us a palace of light

Quite like yours? We could live

In limitlessness and suffer only

The boredom that divinity affords.

If your kindness were to grant us this,

We would burn our entire world to get it.

We will burn our entire world to get it.

We promise.

The Removal

From roses wilting

Comes a shortage of red.

A wet binding, the clouds

To the droplets. Everything

Falls. Becomes dry land.

The sun removes and instills.

The land cooperates. And when

It doesn’t, there are, now, many roads.

Submittable

Stephen King stuck his letter rejections on a nail

A million writers left unread, the fire of a thousand suns

Walt Whitman self-published so that his poetic style could flow through the rest of American 

                     literature. Free verse

Attempt to produce work that fits the sharpened blades, slice yourself into pieces of art that don't look like you, & by the end, you can barely look yourself in the mirror; you can barely stomach the thought of what it means to be original, what it means to be new, you can't even handle the simple task of writing like you

Note: The poems "How to End the World" and "The Removal" originally appear in Sheffield's chapbook Where God Has Gone (Voice Lux Press) 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 Spell for Everyday Magic

I had never seen a lightning bug before until moving to the Jalisco highlands nor seen, as we say
here, the rain-of-stars in the chill winter air—meteors crossing space and wild, so short in glory
but even in death more beautiful than expected, feeling lucky that we even crossed paths. Even as
I was still reeling from the one-two punch of a friend’s betrayal-lies, complicated by my neighbour
leaving the horse to die in my backyard, it was in the black of August’s new moon I was surprised
by hundreds of fireflies, where one is rare let alone endless green flecks twinkling like a Christmas
tree across the back field—a defib to my body electrifying through my veins this everyday magic
to these grace-starved days, and I wonder how long before I actually remember that serving of
goodness in all sorts of flavours, probably like when I asked the dance teacher how long before
my legs and arms could coordinate and she said, Yes. Years. There are flower petals scattered next
to my coffee cup; they look like long pink feathers, as if an angel wing moulted here on the table—
always this scattering and also, the drawing in, and really just paying attention, so I watch the orb
spider, apparently floating in the blue sky in its invisible web strung between the shed and the
tree—invisible webs embracing us all. What about if I just let it all go softly—my shelf is full of
magic potions and syringes that sometimes brings a goat back to life, sometimes no matter what I
try, I get a different answer. I’m not left behind, my journey, like everyone’s, was always narrow
and mostly uphill. See ourselves reflected in the spider lurching on her prey, all of us made of the
same sunshine, the same fingers weaving this intricate design, the same creative juices that put
words to paper and paint to canvas which also knit webs and clouds with the wind, the same need
to feed, breathe, breed. I wonder if the spider hears the birds like I do or if she just feels the trilling
vibrations through her tastebuds, the enchantment they weave in their song is how she finds the
design for her web, the song in long sticky lines between singer and listener, all enmeshed until
high above, the owl glides, above bird singing webs to where the notes are longer and wilder and
looser, the sheen of a new leaf is god’s mirror—seeing, breathing, and touching the branches.

Heretic

An altar of stone,
a crinkled leaf and flower petals.
Dusk. Heretic, break bread,
body, spill a cup of water,
listen to the chorus of birds,
the stillness. Heretic, watch
the swallows dipping
for a drink rushing over the pond
to cricket accompaniment—
they aren’t meant to be contained;
see the whole, the loamy soil,
the lotus rising from the mud
in the dark, holy
gratitude, a divine wine song
touching tongue, touching earth. Heretic,
when the shoe doesn’t fit anymore
fold it up gently, thankfully into its box,
stretch your arms to the sky;
these body-clothes can hardly
contain the stars that scatter
at every footstep: knower,
knower of nothing, seeking,
feet on the path. Heretic, welcome
to the cold and bright edge
of the inside. A place as ancient
as ritual, as song, as wisdom.
Life rising, an ever-expanding
universe, fearless. Prophet,
wonder will get you everywhere.

Terce

Trickling truths
finally Molotov-cocktailed
into what had been only
performance. Endings,
which after all,
are beginnings. Echo.
Beginnings are picking up
the pieces of train wreck
with just tweezers and tape,
spotting buttercups and morning glories
sprouting through the wreckage.
Rebuilding was that picnic
in the desert, with icy cold
watermelon in prickly heat;
or tilling the dust
bowl with toothpicks,
or a few spiny huizaches
frozen into popsicles,
endings and reorganizing
never quite what was hoped for—
rainfalls on dust, and yet,
perhaps better.

Behold, bird songs
like water in a brook,
and there I was
hoe in weathered hand,
step by step,
seed bag slung
over my shoulder.

Sext

The day, a perfect mix
of songbird and ruminant
stomachs digesting,
enthusiastic puttering
of dog tails against my legs,
and the sky free of cloud clutter.
I guess what
I had wished for
was all coming true—
which isn’t the gift
it first seems to be—
watching each event collecting:
the sunsets and desert stillness,
observing the sheep, the horses,
eat their grain, the chewing,
a flick of an ear,
the swish of a tail.
Dry and hot
and this unknown path,
the sheep’s contentment
becomes mine.

Lisa López Smith is a shepherd and mother making her home in central Mexico. Her poems and essays have been published in over fifty literary journals and nominated for the Pushcart prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets. Her first chapbook was published by Grayson Books, and she has a collection forthcoming from Nightwood Editions.

i know i’ve met you:

    at least once in a family tree:

grandfathers have climbed too high

stolen      a ride on clouds

become lost.

     not one exists—

the heads of grandmothers

     float, carrying their bodies

     like balloons & string

but they've burst—

     both become fragments,

both lose their names,

fallen in some ocean

pulled under the current.

●●●●●

i loved you until you died—

now i write about it.

thank you for leaving behind

a poem. 

       your last kiss a pomegranate:

dropping seeds into my mouth—

i will plant them.        i dig into a body

to make a new body. the soil

between my nails.       i plant them—

each into their own pot.

a piece of you        spread throughout

       the house.

 john compton (b. 1987) is a gay poet who lives in kentucky with his husband josh and their dogs, cats and mice. his latest full length book is "my husband holds my hand because i may drift away & be lost forever in the vortex of a crowded store" published with Flowersong Press (dec 2024); his latest chapbook is "melancholy arcadia" published with Harbor Editions (april 2024). you can find his books, some poems and other things here: https://linktr.ee/poetjohncompton.

Zophar’s Wizdom

In the land of Uz, where Job lived large and free,
He thrived in wealth, with boundless integrity.
But Satan, with a wink, made a simple bet:
“Let’s test this faith,” and on Job, woes were set.

His riches vanished, his health turned dire,
Yet it wasn’t hate, just fate’s cruel fire.
His friends soon gathered, opinions galore,
To explain why Job’s life had turned so sore.

First came Zophar, speaking with a frown,
"Clearly, Job, you’ve let God down.
Your punishment’s light for sins so grim—
You must’ve angered Him on some whim!"

But Job, though covered in sores and dust,
Held firm, his faith refusing to combust.
“No secret sins here,” he quietly spoke,
His friends' sharp words were more like a joke.

Their wisdom was brittle, their comfort thin,
Like explaining a storm with a "You must’ve sinned!"
Job listened with patience, though tempted to scoff—
Their "helpful" advice was just wildly off.

Then from a whirlwind, God made His debut,
With thunderous words that cut right through.
He scolded the friends for their twisted chat,
And turned to Job: “Who are they to judge that?”

He raised Job high, from his lowest of lows,
Restored his fortunes, and silenced the foes.
For through every trial, Job’s faith held fast,
And in the end, he was blessed at last.

Murray Eiland is a poet and an archaeologist specializing in the Eastern Mediterranean. He is particularly interested in how different societies have interacted over time.