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A Letter from an Old Man

18/2/2025

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By Casey Dwyer

That which was from the beginning
         Which we have seen with our eyes
         Which we have heard with our ears
         Which we have touched with our hands
In darkened rooms, in Capernaum
At the seaside, Jerusalem
Along paths we’d walked 
All our lives, he was there 
Footfalls on fallen soil
Heart and hands and eyes of clay 
But behind, and in, and under each variegated moment
Not just man, but God as man, God and man

We cannot but share what we’ve seen and heard.

I
Tabernacled

Darkness, pierced by

The Light that first looked on me. 
Eyed eternity eyeing me
From ages past, peering through the black
And the darkness has not overcome it.
My sight, fooled by the apparent contradiction
Of Eternal Eye contained in mortality
          The manger bed, the infant cry, the brutality 
          Of a birth hidden, a life hidden, flying away 
          To Egypt, to the desert, to the wilderness
          To Nazareth.
Was his Light hidden? 
Yes—but only as the kiln 
Hides the fire. 

Moses saw a glimpse of this fire
But here, in Him, it stands entire
Kilned with hope of healing every eye
And breaking upon the darkness of each place we’ve seen
Lost and desecrated by the blinded hours;
He comes, and stands, and looks again

Eternal Light sees through mortal eyes.

II
Have You Not Heard?

Voice heard in upper room

Of him who first Spoke me. 
He, who is the voice of creativity
No, creation itself, 
The One who’s speaking
Is both speaking as knowing, 
And speaking as creating
Cognition and recognition
We did not recognize his voice
Though it rang, even with his accent, 
Of a song that was sung before time itself 
And a knowledge deeper than sun and moon
A language clearer than the birdsong
          And the dew in the valley. 

When I hear that voice
I start, dimly, to comprehend
That he is speaking me still, addressing me
And dressing me
With clothes that don’t fit now, but will
In a place where his speaking and what I hear will be one.

III
Touch, Thomas

Thomas, reach out and touch

Him who first laid his hand on thee. 
Go, don’t hide, put out your hand
For he feels, even now, your questions
Demands, lines drawn, objections 
That will only be satisfied if you feel
That he feels still, no ghost
But man, still full of flesh and bone. 
If you dare, you’ll feel both flesh and bone
In wounds on wrist and side, he urges you--
Feel their heat, Living heat, 
And touch the blood
          Let it stain your hand. 

That’s Mary’s blood, and ours now too
As it fell, a sign upon the skull of earth.
It united me to her, and us to him, 
And as it touched the ground, soaked in
A hidden memory, waiting for the day
When it will turn to gold what now is clay. 

IV
Patmos

All these years later

I’ve seen and felt ten-thousand deaths, 
All who have seen and heard are dead. 
Here I am, alone, listening but unable to hear
Exiled here to Patmos’ cave 
Damp walls echo my sorrows. 

Behind, I hear that Voice again, 
Sound of many waters
A hand on the shoulder 
Old eyes catching fire--
Behold! He who has ears to hear, 
Let him hear!

Old eyes are best suited to receive revelation 
For old men are sailors awaiting ships.
And now the world is old and waits with me.
 
Look! Spirals in the highest heaven 
And at their centrifugal core, a throne
And upon the throne, a Lamb
Still blood and bone, both God and man
With words as swords, heat and light
Enfolding as it was, is, and will be forever 
Into one motion, presence, and eternal will. 

There, one word fills a page 
To touch is to lay hold
And behind, and in, and under each variegated moment
The Kiln no longer hides, but reveals the Fire
Which soon shall burn new not just soul and desire
But us entire: 
Eye, and ear, and hand, and will.

Casey Dwyer is a pastor, poet, and painter living in Monroe, Wisconsin, with his blessed wife, Danielle. He pastors Lena Free Church in Lena, Illinois, where he relishes in the art of preaching and pastoring saturated in the stories of real people and real places. At home you’ll find him painting in oils, listening to Dante and rejoicing in his garden. Oh, and above all things, laughing with Danielle. You can read a sliver of his work at Ekstasis Magazine or on his blog, revivalrenewal.com. 
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Uncontained God

16/2/2025

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By Bryant Burroughs

     ‘Hail, space for the uncontained God’
          From the Agathistos Hymn, 6th century

The common womb of Mary
became “the home of God”,
Creator fitting into
the woman he had made,
uncontained God taking root
in a maid whose womb was filled
without the touch of man,
the seed inside somehow Spirit,
to come forth as Jesse’s Shoot.
The very fruit
of her womb
was Very God.
And she would nurse
at her breast
the Hope of Nations,
who came from God’s heavens
into the New Eve’s womb,
to wrest us from the curse.

Bryant Burroughs is a poet and short story creator whose work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith and Hope & Fiction. His first collection of poetry is published as Where Do My Words Go? Bryant lives with his wife Ruth and three cats in Upstate South Carolina.

Bryant's other work on Foreshadow:
The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022)
The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022)
The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023)

The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023)
Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023)
Song of the Star (Poetry, December 2023)
A Long Walk Toward God (Poetry, January 2024)
All the Dead Heard His Voice (Poetry, March 2024)

Letters from Heaven (Poetry, June 2024)
Joseph's Psalm (Poetry, February 2025)
Song of the Stable (Poetry, February 2025)
God of Long Journeys (Poetry, February 2025)

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God of Long Journeys

16/2/2025

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By Bryant Burroughs

​You came afar to this place,
from unseen to sight,
from worship to scorn
from pure light to dark.
“That’s where I want to go,”
you must have told the Father,
for You, the very God-Self,
made your way to this infected sphere
in which few expected you
and none bid you come,
for we fear a God too near.
​
In your train trailed bits of yourself:
grace, mercy, hope,
endless springs of love.
And, in your return
to joy-filled Heaven,
in your train are grateful souls.


Bryant Burroughs is a poet and short story creator whose work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith and Hope & Fiction. His first collection of poetry is published as Where Do My Words Go? Bryant lives with his wife Ruth and three cats in Upstate South Carolina.

Bryant's other work on Foreshadow:
The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022)
The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022)
The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023)

The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023)
Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023)
Song of the Star (Poetry, December 2023)
A Long Walk Toward God (Poetry, January 2024)
All the Dead Heard His Voice (Poetry, March 2024)

Letters from Heaven (Poetry, June 2024)
Joseph's Psalm (Poetry, February 2025)
Song of the Stable (Poetry, February 2025)
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Song of the Stable

16/2/2025

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By Bryant Burroughs

​Sing ye, womb of Mary:
the capacious God
who contains all things
has formed into flesh
within your confines.
Your Yes to an angel’s word
brought forth God’s Word,
God unborn, then first-born,
the very Yes of God.

Sing ye, red-stained straw,
debris of common grass
cast into troughs
as feed for beasts.
You throw-aways became
a soft bed for the babe
to drop from the womb
and to know, “I am here!”

Sing ye, stable walls.
You recite forever
the mother’s birth-screams,
the baby’s howls,
the father’s tears.
A birth-place is a noisy
place, even for God.

          We sing with joy this night
          to welcome God’s Delight.
          ​Come all, come all,
          ​Come to his light.

Bryant Burroughs is a poet and short story creator whose work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith and Hope & Fiction. His first collection of poetry is published as Where Do My Words Go? Bryant lives with his wife Ruth and three cats in Upstate South Carolina.

Bryant's other work on Foreshadow:
The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022)
The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022)
The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023)

The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023)
Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023)
Song of the Star (Poetry, December 2023)
A Long Walk Toward God (Poetry, January 2024)
All the Dead Heard His Voice (Poetry, March 2024)

Letters from Heaven (Poetry, June 2024)
Joseph's Psalm (Poetry, February 2025)

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Joseph's Psalm

16/2/2025

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By Bryant Burroughs

I feared I would live alone,
unsoftened by a woman’s love.
Then she sang her song
into my crusted heart.
How could one so young and kind
love me, a man of hardened hands?
I imagined our days ahead:
marriage, daughters as fair as she,
sons to be workers of wood like me.
Only you, God, could work
such a wonder of love,
to wrap she and I
together for life.
I thanked you, God, every time
I looked into her eyes.

Then the unthinkable – pregnant!
How can this be?
The one I trusted is with child.
And her story!
That it was you who touched her womb;
that you are the life-giver
of her first-born, not me.
I, her betrothed, wasn’t needed.
I wasn’t needed to give her
our first-born child.
You and she have shamed me.
​
And now your Angel?
“Don’t be afraid to marry her,” he said.
God, wasn’t it enough
that I was betrayed?
That she made me an old fool?
Wasn’t it enough
for me to put her aside
and give her up without punishing her?
Now you ask too much of me.
Do you always give a gift in one hand
and a trial in the other?
I’ll take the gift of loving her as wife,
and I will do so with all my heart.
Help me to be as strong-hearted
with my Son,
the Son you’ve given us.

Bryant Burroughs is a poet and short story creator whose work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith and Hope & Fiction. His first collection of poetry is published as Where Do My Words Go? Bryant lives with his wife Ruth and three cats in Upstate South Carolina.

Bryant's other work on Foreshadow:
The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022)
The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022)
The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023)

The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023)
Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023)
Song of the Star (Poetry, December 2023)
A Long Walk Toward God (Poetry, January 2024)
All the Dead Heard His Voice (Poetry, March 2024)
Letters from Heaven (Poetry, June 2024)
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Early in Time

16/2/2025

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By L. M. Shearer

Early in time the womb of the world waited
in dark for the word spoken that would break light
over the waters and be called “day” and the soft setting
of light over the horizon that would be called “night”
the world's first morning and the world's first evening
and he stretched a canopy over the waters to keep the waters back
that girdled the earth above which the word of God labored
to shape and smooth an expanse in the evening black
and in the day glowing with light from a source unseen
he drew the waters back from the earth’s heart
and up from the ground sprung grasses thick and green
and fruits of fruit-bearing trees both sweet and tart
and called it dry land and above it
deep within the expanse he gave the sun
guardianship of the day’s light and made moon and stars
and gave the rule of the night to every one
and took to the sea and filled it to his delight
with creatures that varied in size and shape infinitely
and taking the wind that circled the earth
he fashioned a creature that could sail it freely
and turned the next day again to the dry land to work
beasts and creeping things for the freshborn land
then fashioned his own likeness out of the dust of the earth
and breathed his own breath into him, and named him “Man.”

L.M. Shearer is a high school and Sunday school teacher from the beautiful Pacific Northwest, USA. She volunteers as a Court Appointed Special Advocate, studies theology in her spare time and has occasionally written poems on post-it notes at work.

Shearer's other work on Foreshadow:
He Stretched Out His Hands (Poetry, November 2024)
The Revelation of John (Poetry, October 2024)
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Waiting for the Word

16/2/2025

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By Abigail Carroll

“How did it happen?” asked the olive oil merchant at the market.

“Did illness take his voice?” asked the baker from behind a display of loaves.

“Did he swallow something cursed?” asked the goatherd, selling butter and cheese.

“It was an angel,” Elizabeth explained. “An angel in the temple.”

“An angel?” asked the spice dealer. “How do you know?”

“I knew it even before he opened his mouth. When he came back from the temple, he had the shining of Moses about him, but in a frightful way. He didn’t eat for three days.”

Indeed, because fear of angels is not enough to cure a soul, I went mute. When I opened my mouth, my throat did not work. My breath was dry. For nine months and nine days I shaped no word with my tongue. I learned to wave and point. I made good use of a tablet and chalk. I was reduced to an infant, except for the fact that even my weeping was without sound. Such was the price of standing in the Holy Place with a doubting heart.

At first, I was trapped in shock. Who was the high priest Zechariah without a voice? What good was the wisdom of my years without a tongue?

Soon, I gave up. I did not even scrawl letters with chalk. If I could have shaped a sound, I would have moaned and moaned. My whole being was a silent, wallowing complaint.

After some days, though, I noticed a strange thing. The low cackling of the morning fire, the gentle pouring of water—I had begun to hear these things in a different way. And the voices of people became more than mere chatter. They took on life: the neighbors’ children playing, priests reciting Torah, Elizabeth’s small laughter.

“My love,” whispered Elizabeth one morning, pressing my hand to her aproned middle. She was carrying our child. The veil of silence did not lift, but in that moment, it changed. In that moment, I knew the Silencer and the Giver were one and the same.
​
And so I learned to wait. There was much to wait for: the coming of our child and the hoped-for coming back of my voice. The wonder of it, which emerged like the slow unveiling of a mountain shrouded in mist, was that somehow none of this was about me. It was not about us. What I mean is, something was dawning. Someone greater than Moses was coming, and it seemed my silence was strangely announcing his advent. Messiah was not far. In the cavern of my silence, the Word who spoke into being all that is and was and ever will be was preparing to speak.

* * *
​
“My Lord, open my lips, and my mouth shall declare your praise,” chanted the temple priests a few weeks after my encounter with the angel.

As the Psalm echoed against the stone of the temple walls, I noticed a priest in his sashed tunic steal a glance my way. The irony of the words was not lost on him. Nor was it lost on me.

At the close of the prayers, an older priest laid his hand on my shoulder and spoke in a pebbled voice the wisdom of Job: “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.”

The younger priest beside him blurted out, “Without your voice, the prayers simply are not the same!”

What is prayer? I thought. There is worship in spoken words, but worship also in a bow. There is worship in a song, but greater worship in the God-ward living of a life. The prayers that had once danced on my lips now seeped into my sinews and bones. Just as our treasured son was growing in Elizabeth’s womb, so a new way of praying was growing in me.

The quiet, at first a dark wasteland, had become a welcome wilderness. I had been exodused from the slavery of my role, my name, my success. And in the solitude of that desert I heard for the first time the low, continuous thrumming of my heart—its own prayer. These small intercessions ticked the long afternoons while I sat under the olive or lay down to rest.

To my surprise, I found myself grateful for things I had never given thanks for in the past, and with a depth of gratitude I did not know could be mine.

Blessed are you, O Lord, God of the Universe, for the taste of almonds and salt, by which we delight in your goodness.

Blessed are you, O Lord, God of the Universe, for a new generation, through which you write your story onto time.
​

Blessed are you, O Lord, God of the Universe, for every uncountable star in the mystery of Abraham’s vast sky.

​* * *
​
One day, Elizabeth’s young cousin from Nazareth appeared—she, too, expecting. The sound my dear wife made at her arrival was that of a giddy child. And from the next room, I heard something I’d never heard before: my wife prophesying. For the child in her cousin’s womb was no ordinary child. John danced in Elizabeth’s womb at the encounter, just as David once danced before the ark.

That evening, while Elizabeth chopped cucumbers and onions, Mary spoke of an angel visiting her in a flurry of fearful light.

“The room grew bright,” Mary said. “I heard a voice like water, and it spoke my name.”

“Go on,” Elizabeth said, smiling with attentive delight.

“‘How could I tell Joseph my son was God’s Son? I planned to hold the secret for a little while, but when he saw me, he knew at once I was no longer who I had been.”

Mary looked downward.

“He did not understand?” Elizabeth offered, interpreting Mary’s gaze.

“He drew up the papers for divorce,” Mary explained. “I was about to be alone with child. But then he had a dream, and everything changed.”

Elizabeth reached over and squeezed Mary’s hand as one who understood. “The Lord has made a way.”

Mary nodded. “Nothing is impossible with God.”

As Mary spoke, words from Isaiah entered my mind. I could not fend off the prophet’s age-old declarations descending on me like a flock of laughing doves. Could Isaiah’s vision be coming to pass? I motioned for my tablet and scrawled from memory the 700-year-old promise: The Lord himself will give you the sign. Look! The virgin will conceive a child. She will give birth to a son and will call him Emmanuel, which means “God is with us”. 

​
Elizabeth stopped chopping, and we sat in a pondering stillness as dusk turned to night.

* * *
​
A week and a day after our dear son’s birth, when the morning of his circumcision arrived, many people came to share in the radiance of our joy. They came also because they were curious. How could it be that gray-haired Elizabeth had delivered a strapping newborn with wild dark eyes? And what did it portend that the child’s father had exited the temple on the Day of Atonement, mute, bizarrely unable to utter so much as a sigh?

“His name shall be Zechariah, like his father,” my brother declared.

“Good health, long life to young Zechariah!” declared the family and neighbors who were present to bear witness.

Elizabeth raised her hand to quiet the jubilation.

“That is not our wish,” she said firmly. "We have chosen the name John.”

A hush fell on the group.

“John?” asked the Rabbi hesitantly.

“Ridiculous! There is no John in the family line,” blurted my brother.

“Laughable!” chimed in his wife.

“Absurd!” added a neighbor with creased brow.

Custom is strong and slow to change, but I put an end to their fussing. I scratched in bold, forceful letters on my tablet the name the angel had given.

Then, in the time it takes for a roll of thunder to follow desert lightning’s blinding flash, the words on the tablet became alive. They were like a spring deep in me suddenly swelling into a river that coursed powerfully through my lips.

“John! His name is John! By the decree of the Lord’s angel, his name is John!”

For the first time in nearly a year, I heard my own voice, and it startled me into praise. Over and over, the sudden river of sound coming out of me shaped my son’s name, and the name of my wife, and the name of my God. As I declared these things, my voice lifted me close to the One who had taken it away.

Someone gasped. Someone stared. Someone raised their hand and shouted a blessing. There was dancing. We laughed deep and hard with joy.
​

That night, when the festivities were complete and I lay with Elizabeth, our warm, smooth-skinned child between, I stayed awake long, listening to his breath. I thought of days past and of days yet to come, and I felt no reason to speak, no urge to render a sound in the quiet, lampless dark. Soft was the coo of roosting doves, uncountable the stars in the mystery of Abraham’s vast sky.

Abigail Carroll is author of three poetry collections: Cup My Days like Water, Habitation of Wonder, and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim. Her poems have been anthologised in How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope as well as in Between Midnight and Dawn: A Literary Guide to Prayer for Lent, Holy Week, and Eastertide. Her work of nonfiction, Three Squares: The Invention of the American Meal, was a finalist for the Zócolo Public Square Prize. She lives and writes in Vermont. Find her at www.abigail-carroll.com.
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The Seventh Day

16/2/2025

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By Desi Ana Sartini

Light stretches,
rolling out across the land,
warming the face of the earth,
raising a gentle breeze,
soft upon our skin.

Robin and rooster proclaim the morning,
stirring us
to joy of day.

A glow shines
from the heart of the garden,
drawing,
summoning,
growing in
radiant splendor
until it outshines the risen sun, and
the whole garden blazes with glory.
Our heart leaps.

For You come,
descending in all Your fullness.
Sand melts to
sapphire glass
beneath Your feet.

The host heaven assembles all around.
Your voice rushes through the garden
a thundering waterfall:
​
          “I take the earth to be My kingdom,
          the image bearer to be the steward of my rule.
          I set my throne in Eden,
          the place of my rest.”

A chorus rises all around,
as all the host of heaven proclaim:

          “Holy, holy, holy is the Eternal One,
          Yahweh Almighty!
          The whole earth is full of Your glory!”

We bow in the dust of the earth,
face to clay:

          “You have created all things.
          Worthy, worthy, worthy is our God and King
          to receive all worship,
          for in You we live and
                    move and
                              have our being.”

Your voice pours over us,
a rushing stream:

“Rise, my child, image-bearer.”

We rise and look You full in the face.
Your face!
Radiant beauty from which all others echo.
Eyes that see straight to the depths of our soul.
Ears that hear the faintest whispers of our heart.
Mouth that speaks mountains,
subdues seas,
kindles stars,
and anoints us
bearers of that image.

Rapt we stand,
a moment, a day, a thousand years,
who can say?
Glory inexhaustible--
what time could suffice to behold it?
Before You, a diamond of infinite facets
would hold no allure.

You speak:

          “Be fruitful and multiply!
          Fill the earth and subdue it.
          For My kingdom is your kingdom,
          My rule, your rule.
          Where you dwell, I will dwell,
          and in Me you will find your rest
          ​as you carry out My rule on the earth.”

Desi Ana Sartini writes from SE Asia, where she has immersed herself in language. She studies Malay literature by day, Hebrew poetry by night and cake-making on the weekends. You can read more of her work at www.breathanddust.com.

Desi's other work on 
Foreshadow:
The Sixth Day (Poetry, November 2024)
Defiant Hope (Fiction, October 2024)
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Thin Places

24/11/2024

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By R. M. Francis

My faith became gigantic …
we felt him walking among us:


deep in man
the love of thin places. To touch
its stones is prayer, is momentary
communion; the thin place multiplies.


R. M. Francis is Senior Lecturer and Course Leader in Creative and Professional Writing at the University of Wolverhampton. He's the author of two novels, Bella and The Wrenna, published with Wild Pressed Books, and a poetry collection, Subsidence, with Smokestack Books. In 2019 he was the inaugural David Bradshaw Writer in Residence at the University of Oxford and in 2020 was Poet in Residence for The Black Country Geological Society. In 2023 Poe Girl Publishing produced his collection of horror stories, Ameles / Currents of Unmindfulness. His academic research focuses on place-identity in the Black Country and has been published in a number of edited collections; he co-edited the book, Smell, Memory and Literature in the Black Country (Palgrave McMillan) with Professor Sebastian Groes.

Francis' other work on 
Foreshadow:
Man of Sorrows (Poetry, October 2024)
Prayerfully (Poetry, October 2024)

Anthony (Poetry, November 2024)
Shroud (Poetry, November 2024)

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Sigh for a Failed Poem

17/11/2024

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By David Athey

Something about the brain
in mystical water, and cod,
scrod, olive oil,
and olives. There was a rain-
bow trout, or salmon, lentils,
pumpkin seeds and pumpernickel
bread, and red wine (of course)
and a refrain: Brain go to Kitchen
Kitchen go to Heaven
Heaven feed Brain
Brain go to Kitchen
Kitchen go to Heaven
Heaven feed Brain

(repeated 4 or 5 times) (maybe 7)
How much
refrain is too much? Cabbage,
asparagus, broccoli, kale,
all those leafy greens--
I couldn’t help me,
myself, and I, and Brain said: More!
Refrain! 7 times, 7
times more! Collard greens, beets,
mustard greens, lima beans,
lemony lime and leapin’ salmon
glazing the sky!
Understand? Brain. Kitchen.
Something…mystical water…more…
Heaven…more…more…
(less refrain)
Sigh.


David Athey’s poems, stories, essays, and reviews have appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Christianity & Literature, Iowa Review, Dappled Things, Berkeley Fiction Review, Windhover, Relief, Time of Singing, and Harvard Review. Athey lives in South Florida on a small lake with large iguanas. His books, including Art is for The Artist, are available at Amazon.

David's other work on
Foreshadow:
That Poet (Poetry, October 2024)
Our Days in Rays of Light (Poetry, November 2024)

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