Welcome

I Am Free

I am free when I am partless.

Free, for example, when I look
at my discoloured face with a heart
pulsating with the red of air,
when as a colony of ants makes
a temple of bites at my feet,
I dive into my scream like a child
leaping into the sea one ice-cream afternoon,
free when I am free to stumble and to stammer,
to bare the ache of me being here and you over there,
of feeling that I end where my skin ends,
free when you voice yourself and I hear you
with the Ear of my ear, when I see your structure
with the Eye of my eye.
Free, in the instance, for example, I call you and
you and you my sister and my sister’s sister and
my sister’s sister’s sister and I know this to be true
even though we have never spoken,
that claypots and blood and names are
specks of immutability—then, I am free
and you too, if you like
to partake in partlessness, and give over
to the excitement of the road
as an extension of your body.
Listen—
the bell of silence.

That Dark Dweller
“That dark dweller in Braj / Is my only refuge”

                                                    —"That Dark Dweller" by Mirabai

Blue as a storm-cloud
my dear friend appeared
on the day of the first thunderclap;
there was nothing to do
but listen.
Two or three drops of rain
fell on parched lips.
I became
a rain-charmer,
coaxing each cloud,
one at a time,
to turn blue.
It is the only way to pass the time
until the real storm-cloud comes,
and my friend brings a deluge.

At The Back Of It All

At the back of it all,
behind the running-eyes,
the rainclouded-sighs,
words spoken, food taken,
you do not let me go
back to those dark imaginings
of pulling and scratching at
passing pictures.
You have sprung
too visible
after tears had been wiped
from raw eyes.
You, champion of the littlest,
blindest rats, kisser of the closed-
hearted, lover of the self-damned,
of the grey-skinned, of those too frightened
to dream in colour—
because you love us in the dark
we can make it.
We feel the unschooled shock
of our right to be here,
of our right to swallow
sun particles for breakfast.
At the back of it all,
you have lifted the ban
to stare stunned and misbehave
like confident lovers.

Fading
"I close my eyes and She's in there / garlanded with human heads"

                                        --"She's Playing in My Heart" by Ramprasad Sen

So, so, the master had been lurking within,
behind trees choked with leaves.
He only had to blow an ant off his skin
and the leaves parted.
He smiled and I began to fade.

Shivani Sivagurunathan is a Malaysian author. Her first novel, Yalpanam, was published by Penguin Southeast Asia in September 2021. Her poetry collection Being Born (Maya Press) and her book of fiction What Has Happened to Harry Pillai?: Two Novellas (Clarity Publishing) came out in 2022. 

Wishful Thinking

The childhood-you asks your atheist parents, How do you know?
We don’t, they reply. Perhaps we are wrong.

A nagging itch remains.

Inexplicable energy moves beyond the temporal and edges toward the intangible.

Dreams of a dead father are like visits and communion.
I see you, he says without speaking aloud. I’m with you.

In nature, enveloped, connected -- outside of yourself but inextricably linked.
Wind is your breath. Your tears are the ocean.

Coincidence? Instincts say otherwise. A gift from the universe -- time to tap in.

Meditation. Try, fail, try again. Fraud! Unskilled. The mind won’t quiet -- the silent
chatter is deafening.

Enlightenment elusive. It’s wishful thinking. There is no path. Set the goal aside.
Move forward in a life.

Years later, you hold a baby. Hold his cancer. And rock.

Small body against yours. You’ve found what is holy and profound.

You bargain. You beg to the one you doubt exists. A desperate and primal plea, as
natural as breathing. Now. Now you are connected to the divine. Though promised
nothing, you are heard, embraced, loved. Perhaps we are wrong, comes back as a
whisper.

There is meaning in the simple act of being. This space - this time. Connecting you
to what came before and what will come after.

Sacred life. Walk the long road without solid footing.

Claim your precarious perch. Let it wobble. Right yourself. This equilibrium,
though temporary, is your connection to God. Take it. This is yours.

Madeline Soglin teaches Pilates in New Jersey and is the proud owner of an award-winning studio, Madkat Pilates. A retired modern dancer, she began writing to fill the creative outlet void that dancing had once provided. Madeline has two grown sons and shares a home with her husband and four pets.  

方式 Fāngshì

quiet pervades space
water moves slowly
the way winds about
the shore is never formed

I can see a holy house
built anew & crumbling
it is sparkling & tarnished
it is my Great Home

each day I must destroy it
break up the walls of brick
to rebuild the next day
& make it never a tomb

quiet pervades space
water moves unshaped
the way is given breath
the shore responds in kind

the hypostatic tree

I have heard tell
of a great tree
that grew & grows
in a splendid garden

that this is one tree
with three branches
& only three branches
hath this tree

but I tell you different
for I have seen this tree
& experienced it
as a plethora of branches

yes, I stood in its shadow
enjoyed & enjoy its shade
for this tree is varied & splendid
a vast canopy of branches

& each of these branches
hath many a name
& many a shape

but, yes, of tone tree they are

so much have I seen this tree
that I cannot unsee its glory
I cannot apply to it
constraints made by man

no, no, the hypostatic tree
is resplendent just because
its branches are many
though its truly but One

El Otro

el viaje begins
before form
& time
can coalesce
& Subject splits

but el viaje begins
& it goes on
& the Split
for some
begins to fuse
in experience
even minute
of el Otro

yet here the hoards
draw back
from the One
& are quick
to bury
& work with the dead

even the thought
of el Otro
curdles their souls
blinds their eyes
& closes their ears
for their fright
is the only taste
that lingers on tongues

yet here we sit
no further along
but so far past
that el Otro
always present
weeps for loss
that is manifest

& hope for he
that but pours out
dwindles & must be sought
lest he give in

No! No! No!
does not el Espíritu
flow & drive
burn & enlive
Yes! Yes! Yes!

so I
the he who writes now
& to you speaks
must watch with joy
as el Otro is consumed
in el Espíritu
& the Subject alone remains
& the One I call Abba exists
to watch the wicked of the kingdom of man
carry out their deception
through their ignorance of Espíritu
through their darkened hubris

el viaje continues
& the disciples of many
but One house
must walk in the smoke
of a dark burning world
thought they in truth
be lit with Espíritu

t. l. bailey is an avid reader and experiencer of other cultures. He works in the English as a Second
Language field and enjoys meeting people from diverse backgrounds. His own exploration of the
greater world stared when he was young. He is a language learner and lover. 

Wavelength

Call it a particle, a wave, a field,

its indeterminacy

forever vibrating, unheard,

within our knowledge.

The silence is spread

around like an eiderdown

wrapping rock, sea and skin,

keeping warm the surfaces

asleep beneath attention.

Hertz and Maxwell reached out

from 1mm to a kilometer

from 3 cycles per second to 300 GHz.

It is not the air

that moans from radios

but the air is moved.

The great wrap

birthed every breath

that ever filled a lung

or broke silence with utterance.

We say,

“it is on the air”

when a broadcast is received

with its cargo booming

from idling vehicles

or forced past the builder’s work

by sheer volume.

My Wishing Line

Old, hunched over there,

Crispy in its corner

Spikey, hidden under dust.

Feline patience

Stills its long tale

From swishing

Baited with a kitty treat

my wishing line

caught a fallen preoccupation

from a stream of

TV commercials

And roused, disturbing the dust,

Prickly reminder

Moved enough to be noticed

Without opening its eyes.

Metallic Dawn

A silent herd

crowds the horizon.

I saw sheep in the sky

it was their golden fleece

that caught my eye.

Alloy of light and dust,

the wooly vapor

and rising sun

speaks of metallic dawn,

yellow bus,

amber light,

traffic jam,

a bleating lamb,

herded on to the freeway.

Stuck in our freedom.

Tony Bates grew up in different parts of the world following his father’s postings in the Foreign Service. Now living in Alexandria, Virginia, he is a retired government bureaucrat, house husband, part time writer, gardener, and community volunteer. He is both a self-styled “Citizen of Nowhere” and a concerned citizen of this remarkable country. 

curtain call

I’d like to introduce you to : egoless deities.
Their names describe them far more than their physicalities.
Most are friendly (some are scary) scary mostly so : they
frighten off ego, & so open the way : to GodSun sans a ray;
or skullbay to GodSea (however you conceive) they always
say “It’s better to connect than to believe.”
I like to call them the Celestial Academy.
Here’s a modest list from the infinite registry:

Universal Gaze Aglow Enskulled Centrality;
Beholder At [This] Moment Unframed By Mentality;
Instantaneous Creation

                                                 On Ongoingly;
Secret Mantra HookUp Inner-Hearing Silently;
Joy Full Self-Aware deLight Undyed By Imagery;
Comfort Mindful Of All Suffering Humanity;
Self-Recognition Instant Self-Restored Eternally;
Oneness Shining Undivided Through Diversity;
GodSpace Now Immune To All Perishability;
Timeless Recognition Undegraded By Ennui;
Intimate Observer In All Unimpededly;
Anticipated Heaven Gone (For Authenticity);
Don’t Dare Name Me (It Encourages Idolatry);
How Does One Withstand Such Bliss (AH Yes) Effortlessly;
I AM Here According To Each One’s Capacity : To
                                                       Understand Thought-Free;
Close As Can Be Borderless Bliss Isle Of GodSea;
Free From Thinking This Is It! Aglow Actually;
FEAR Delusion Pulverizer (Ally Secretly);
Authentic deLight ‘Cross The Muck Of Dusty Destiny;
There’s Something Unattached To Dust To Dust Egolessly;
Joy Of Radiating KnowGlow Wisdom Wordlessly;
Basking As Skullcave Space [That’s] GodMountain Unity...

Oh so many more but the above do allow me : to take notes
to transmute into pointing poetry.

consummated in the act

Yes AH has a melody
it can’t be written down—
thought-free understanding
insight/edgeless KnowGlow
crown : AH melody that sings
GodSunrise fresh horizon-free:
secure ‘tween the temples (as
well) wholly sidelessly,
consummated in the act
of creativity, unfindable by vision quest
or rote ceremony, un pin-downable by
seeking scientifically, not led astray by
roller coasting human history...
nectar recognition basks as
self-discovery, AH ongoingly...
AH pronounced silently : radiating core
Uplink(s) to naked God
                                                 body.

four Up

1) GodSky’s undivided through
     mindcloud diversity.

2) I AM’s exodusted from
                    pharaoh/egoity.

3) Being one with GodSun
     dawns mindstar intimacy.

4) deLight hatches senseshell(s)
                        Up all-directionally.

buoyant spArk

Directly recognized deLight
experienced as true—
makes craving it an insult to
unseen/beholding View—
nothing transmits like one’s own
core receptivity—
timeless spArk buoyant
                                  over
                                  flooding
                                  mortality.

Ken Goodman is a practitioner of inmost alchemy (manifest as poetry).  

Blooming in Darkness

You have failed. Nothing you do matters, and you are worthless. You have accomplished nothing.
You are ugly. You don’t add value to anyone or anything. Your efforts are worthless. No one
cares what you have to say. Just stop trying to matter. You never will.

The onslaught of insults kept hammering in my head; my mind waging a fiery war against my
emotions. Lying in bed, my body was heavy with despair. My muscles, sore and tense. Unable to
release the pain with tears. Unable to escape the attack. I was caught in a torrential flood of
despondence.

Then, without warning, the Spirit within gave a quiet but firm cry. No. I am justified. I am
worthy. I am complete.

My breathing slowed, and my concentration on the truth increased. I am adored. I am free. I
heard a soft rain pattering, and the melody of birdsong floated through the rain into my soul. I
began to drift, almost weightless. I didn’t know what was happening at first, but I felt a perfect
peace.

I was in the dark and before me, in the distance, was a flower. Four white petals, bright as
sunlight bouncing off snow, but pierced at the tips. Those tips, stained with Burgundy Wine. The
center, a crown formed of peridot. The bloom floated toward me, gliding upon the air, expanding
as it hovered before me. Slowly a spring from the center began to trickle forth. Drop by drop, the
exquisite flower filled with crystal clean water.

Hands stretched forth to cup the flower. Those gentle Hands, worn from woodworking and love.
The Hands dipped lower, just above the exposed skin of my legs and feet. The Hands began to
pour. The water fell onto my vulnerable, bare skin in cascades of grace. The stream was smooth
and warm, tender as a father caressing his babe. The waterfall complete, the flower empty,
silence. My eyes opened. My mind was quiet. My muscles unfurled. I was cleansed and
completely cared for.

That blossom. A dogwood, like the tree that stood in my driveway as a child. A delicate tree but
one I never thought much about. But my mother did. My mother was quite attached to the
dogwood tree. When my father built the house, he laid the concrete for the driveway, but my
mother asked him to save the sweet dogwood. He created a little oasis for the gnarled, but fragile
tree, right there in the middle of the drive into the garage. Even though the tree seemed just part
of my scenery at home, I did look forward to the blooms just before every Easter. Always a
herald of the Light’s return in the spring.

But the dogwood held a precarious spot, there in the middle of the drive, even in its small oasis.
Eventually, a distracted driver hit the tree, and it cracked, much like my mind had cracked under
the pressure of negativity. That year, the tree did not bloom. However, it was deeply rooted and
had a quiet strength, so, while it cracked, it did not shatter. With some care and love from my
dad, the tree healed. In my darkness, the dogwood blossom shone bright, cupped in the Hands
that heal, and I, too, was healed by the care and love in the cascades of grace.

Creation’s Song

This earth - a masterpiece on canvas - a glorious testament to our Creator, who endows our world
with blessings and a charge to us to establish dominion - each a gift in its own right.

The pigment of each rose, the buzz of honeybees, and the melodies of the birds. The rustle of the
breeze through emerald leaves - a symphony that sings His praise.

Your glory emanates from every ray, every gust, every creature with Your breath of life.
The life in the seas expounds upon your infinite mercy and adoration of Your wayward creation.

This world - a gift, a charge, a testament.

As He declared, “If these were silent, the very stones would cry out."*
The Light extinguished and reignited in just three simple rotations...for me.

These verdant lands, the fathomless depths, and the vast skies above endlessly sing Your name.

*Luke 19:40b ESV.

Kaitlyn Ramos is a faith-driven writer whose work explores themes of challenges and personal growth. A reading intervention teacher, Army wife, and homeschool mom in Kentucky, she enjoys travel, museums, and nature walks -- often with her dog in tow. Her work is forthcoming in Christian Devotions and Wingless Dreamer.  

The Flea

After John Donne

Is the timing right? “I do not know,”
I say. And you remark it is always so.
We talk and jest, words flow and flow,
as the cortex advises, shut up, time to go.
More time passes, years have passed in fact,
as we note how few marriages are still intact
among the best of our friends, how we knew long
before they did or guessed, that it was all wrong.
We hold hands of course, exchange a careful kiss.
Do I hear the storied serpent’s hiss,
or does routine boring doubt return,
warning more caution, lest we burn.
The only way we will mingle fluids that I can see,
is if we both are, by sheared chance, bitten by a flea.

The Tight Rope Walker

Taught by experts he loved and applauded, life
Must be lived step by step, he learned to focus,
No gaze to right or left, avoid scenes rife
With distractions, embrace each precious
Moment of inertia or action, keeping as level
And low his center of gravity, aware always of balance.
Older now, loves past and present and revels
Any devil could design behind him, nonchalance
Evaporated in the high air, he wonders what hell is
Awaiting him: a lion gaping wide, lovely, mad
Women doing cartwheels, a serpent’s coil and kiss,
A clown waiting with open arms. He was made
for this. He tidies up, discards, waves he is feeling well.
He lets go. The crowd applauds, he earned his fall.

A Minor Anecdote of the Jar

He brings me, without occasion, a bunch of flowers,
calling them a bouquet, picked from the hill.
No need. He lives right there on the nearby hill-
top, sees me as clearly as the blooming flowers.
I tell him they make me sad there on the spotted hill,
powdered to nothing. Like us the flowers.
“On my morning walk,“ he said, “as I go uphill,
I pass a glass jar angle-planted, empty of flowers.
Yesterday though, in the blinding sun, the whole hill
opened. The jar had sprouted glass flowers.”

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, Creations Magazine, and Austur: A Literary Magazine.