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). He does this in Cleveland.

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.  

Celestial Comrades

      An equanimous mind is like space. It is like mere, empty sky. a pristine place, it somehow
lacks the clutter collected across past lives. There are no predators, jailers, nightmares or
hangmen lurking in the shadows waiting to harass, possess or oppress. The high desert is my
portal to this landscape and every new walk through it, begets a fresh canvas. Sometimes the toil
is tough, but it is also hearty and healthy with no need for feet to be quite as quiet or stealthy as
they were required to be, before. And, in the here and now I stride, arms by my side and hips
pointed in my choice of direction subsisting on my own terms. I cast my view to the heavens and
immediately, I am faced with white wiggly swirls, and whorls of contrails seemingly striving to
jive and decorate the western sky. Strange/curious/pretty watercolor accidents. From time to time
the silent wing of an owl almost caresses the crown of my unsuspecting mortal head, and
sometimes the shrill, piercing whistle of a trio of shrewd-eyed high flier Broad-winged hawks
arrests my senses, while solitary ravens scream and hover low, scanning then hopping along the
generous ground, eager to appropriate what blood-stained leftovers they can. the plump cheeked
prairie dog colonies chirp boldly, while rattlers slither—hither and thither across the cacti
splattered ground, mostly silent and barely deadly. And—as for my Comrades, the mountains,
ahh, my Comrades, indeed: You loom large and long and steady and beautiful in breathtaking
fashion! Sometimes your tops are softly dusted with nature’s frosting, other times your slopes,
forever sanguine, reverberate tone shifts in accordance with the sun, much like the body of a
moody chameleon, or the shimmering glimmer of disco lights. Every time a celestial reminder
that I am never alone.

3AM Dragonfly

when my grandmother came to visit
she came in through the top left corner
of my bedroom window like a silent dragonfly

gliding along a funnel of hazy stardust
and silvery moonlight as she slowly descended
towards the foot of my full-sized bed

a boundless shimmering dress decorated her feet less form—
radiant as a palette of cobalt green aqua marine waves
crashing along the Gulf of Guinea

and seeming to match the malachite brooch
she and I had once loved, to a tee, looking happy
mischievous, youthful, free—and young, like a girl

her hair was wrapped behind her head in an elegant bun, and while
she smiled and waved, I had peered through the funnel, wondering
how she could appear to be so close and so far away at the same time

though I could not understand, her black satin skin carried
an esoteric glow, while her eyes attempted to reassure
through telepathy: it’s me, silly!

back then life was vexatious and filled to the brim
with the type of fracas that made things
interesting and dangerous at the same time

and all I knew how to do was mouth in terror
please go away, you are scaring me
attempting to pull the too-small covers over my petrified head

well—she must have read my lips or heard my mind—for
all of a sudden, the lady, ensconced in her emerald glory
began to fade, all the while waving and smiling

until there was nothing left in her place

but a lingering green mist.
Now, life is calm, and she doesn’t visit anymore.

Sometimes I wonder if she will ever visit again.

I try to tell her in my mind: I think, if you did, this time I would be
sure to wave back and ask you how things are going on your side of the cosmos.

Cheryl Atim Alexander is an Afro-Euro woman, longtime spiritually oriented psychotherapist, social justice activist, and burgeoning creative writer. She is published in Decolonial Passage, Wilderness House Literary Review, Written Tales Magazine, Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, Kalahari Review, and Braided Way Magazine. 

Her Percipience

As you alighted here from far,
With sun-soaked haunts all left behind,
You had not lost your guiding star,
An inward gift of light.

And when with adverse times you’d spar,
As cold and cloudburst both combined,
An inborn sense of what you are
Remained and gained you might.

Now finding fortune’s door ajar,
Foresights rewarded rise to mind,
As in your inmost reservoir
The flame continues bright:

Intense, and yet it does not mar
The heart, nor does its brightness blind.
Calescent, yet it does not char
Your inner lamp of fast insight.

On Waking

“I would often go to sleep with an apparently insoluble problem. When I awoke the answer was
there.” -- George Washington Carver

My dreams have been a vision in the night.
Closed eyes could not obstruct my open ears.
All my instruction has been sealed aright.

Deep sleep falls on me, and I cannot fight.
In body’s rest, the eye within me clears.
My dreams have been a vision in the night.

Amid my slumberings was I so taught;
The light dispensed, though I sensed not from where.
So my instruction has been sealed aright.

I, vexed with trouble, wearied, took to rest.
But pure intelligence dispelled my care.
My dreams have been a vision in the night.

Problems consumed my every waking thought,
Unsolved. But healing rest laid answers bare,
And my instruction has been sealed aright.

Let sleep come. I know better than to fight.
The dayspring sees me wake as truth appears.
My dreams have been a vision in the night.
All my instruction has been sealed aright.

Meditation On Ecclesiastes 5:12

Praise, O my soul, the kind Hand which
Withheld what might have made me rich,
And blessed, instead, my sleep to be
More sweet, by far, than rich men see!

No king could ever know such rest
As soothes the weary worker's breast,
Nor queen be granted such repose
As each night to the toiler goes.

The Banner of Queen Florence

Ships sailed into Savannah’s port,
Like wearied waterfowl resort
To calmer channels and restore
Their strength before they venture more.

Outgoing ships were also seen
By one outgoing girl, a teen,
Whom they would call a queen, with time,
When poets eulogized with rhyme,

And called her “Queen of Elba’s Isle.”
Then half a world away her smile,
Thus recollected by the bards,
Was known in distant shipping yards,

Where sailors praised her on the pier,
Recalling most, and with a tear,
Her welcome wave of lantern light
(Which was her greeting sign by night)

Or of the towel she unfurled,
By day, as if to hail the world.
So she with upraised banner signed
Reception of all humankind.

Thus her salute, sent forth in love,
Seafarers took, like Noah’s dove,
To signal peace and amity,
Safe harbor from calamity,

And rest, secure from surging seas.
Her standard, floating on the breeze,
With whiteness augured purity
In her time, and futurity,

As her impartial love took part
In no inequities of heart.
And like a female Francis she
Appeared in boundless charity:

Her waving grace, like saving grace,
Confined by neither sex nor race,
Claimed siblinghood of shipmates and
One common world, from sand to sand.

K.D. Taylor received his English B.A. from Oregon State University, and still lives in Corvallis, Oregon, with his wife and three sons. He has Tourette syndrome, and it shows, but poetry has proved an excellent medium for channeling his tics. He enjoys fantasy art, smoothies, and power metal (often simultaneously). 

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.  

An Interreligious Experience

An arch of flowers over an altar, 

leaves like arrows point the four directions,

a clay chalice holds the incense blessing

this place for worship in the overworld. 

Before my decent, an old Mayan priest

invited me to share this sacred space,

the energetic place near the entrance

of the cenote, the lake below ground. 

The gateway was a rent in the earth

with a platform above the lake, 

straight down four hundred feet.

The attendant strapped me into a webbed seat.

“Just lean back, let go,” the guide intones,

“trust in Jesus.” He says that’s the name

of the other guide belaying the rope

from a raft floating in the dark waters. 

Rappelling down the rope 

held in the harness, feeling no distress

descending to the underworld, 

where Mayans say we begin life. 

I take the decent slow

I want to know this space

lit only by the sky

seeping through the entry.

I ease past the tree roots

examine the earth roof

breath in the petrichor breath 

of this wide, hallowed place.

They say the depth

of the dim circular pool

has not been plumbed. 

When I can swim free 

I flip on my back for

a primordial float,

an interreligious, 

intrauterine experience.

Pinpoint

A crack in the high rock face shapes sunlight; 

a wedge of rock was hewn out

to shift a bit the shaft of light

that creeps down the spiral petroglyph 

to strike at its center like a dart

thrown by the summer solstice sun at noon. 

This was a feasting place, the archeologists surmise

from a pit that served as a crowd sized oven.

The shamans’ spirit animals are memorialized

by pecked away shapes around the spiral. 

Guided by their spirit animals, the shamans

would tell the tribe, Now. Now is the time to plant. 

Archaic lichen and incisions in the desert varnish

date this as a sacred space of the Pimas 

who planted by the sun and prayed for water. 

I am grateful for the patient ones 

who pray for me with pinpoint precision.

They peck away at the Great Spirit 

Who speaks to me now

through the crack of my imperfection. 

Meditation

She said, she collected experiences:

men she married, careers she climbed

mountains she conquered, marathons she ran

all of them brilliant and exhausting.

When she was finally out of breath

he said he collects breaths

sitting in his chair 

every morning

each inhalation

a rapt invitation

stepping down 

an inner ladder

each exhalation 

expelling the chatter 

of his jumpy mind

and inspiring him

into a place 

of gentle motives

stepping lightly 

breathing deeper 

down to the core

with the golden center

until it glows, grows

radiates out  

the experience 

of peace. 

How Does God Do God? 

Ignores the invocation

to damn. 

Any margin God widens

with a prism. 

Vibrates with any joyful call.

Resonates with love for all. 

Hangs with the mystics. 

Puts on naked radiance.

Lays hands on aloofness

and whispers acceptance.

Knows forgiveness 

as a galaxy knows its axis. 

God’s calendar

has one page

Today. 

God’s address is

Now. 

Frank Desiderio, a former film maker and campus minister, publishes poems every week at Holy Poetry https://holipoetry.substack.com. His poems have also appeared in the Spring Hill Review, Amethyst Magazine, Gnashing Teeth’s ‘zine, Moving Image: Poetry Inspired by Film among other journals. He lives in New York City on Lenape homelands.