By Noah Craig Let my words be few Chosen Let them be sculpted Molded May they mean something Loaded May they be revealed Golden Here, here is my pen Treasured And here are my words Captured You give them meaning Raptured May they be revealed Measured Amen. Noah J. Craig is an author and a poet who hopes that his words will glorify the ultimate Author. Originally from New England, he currently lives in Henderson, Nevada. If he’s not writing, reading or drinking coffee, he is most likely halfway up a mountain wishing he had more storage space on his camera. You can visit him online at noahjcraig.com.
Noah's other work on Foreshadow: Strength (Poetry, March 2023) Paramount, for the Speechless (Poetry, July 2023)
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By Jessica Walters Let not shame develop taproots in the corners of yourself. Let fireweed burn like an afterimage—a flame in the darkness of uncertain nights. In the morning, open the mullioned windows of yourself and let scent of tangled honeysuckle drift in and with it the vole and squirrel. Let the landscape of yourself become an unkept wilderness. Lose yourself among the cedars, spruce, hemlock, where dappled light filters through layers of bough and branch to touch the secret sores. Learn the silent language of sword ferns—brail on the underside of fronds. Eat salal berries, leaving enough for the bird’s breakfast. Wade into the river as if the water will carry you home to your natal river. Jessica Walters' work has been published in The Ormsby Review, [spaces] literary journal, Still, Agape Review, Scintilla and Solum, and her short story 'Glass Jars' was shortlisted for the Mitchell Prize for Faith and Writing. Holding an MFA in Creative Writing, she teaches creative and academic writing in Langley, British Columbia.
Jessica's other work on Foreshadow: The Sunday Blues (Poetry, February 2023) Reintegration and Rediscovery: Jessica Walters and Pilgrimage (Forecast Ep 43) Giotto's Kiss of Judas (Poetry, April 2023) By Julia McMullen The Red Sea didn’t part at first. No, it opened up and took us with it, waves like arms outstretched, soft colors flooding our senses. I thought it was strange, the way my body lifted up. I heard the shouts from below and thought it was a dream, but those were real. The dreams were of sea monsters, tentacles pulling my skin, teeth crowded with urchins, hair heavy with water, sinking to the depths where crocodiles ate my flesh and blood mixed with water, eyes red from salty crimson waves. This was what they meant by plague: these dreams, these nightmares every time I close my eyes and when I woke to be surrounded by the sea, my body seized in mourning, tears indistinguishable from the swell, I cried to God to let me drown; He moved Moses’ staff. Julia McMullen is a poet living in the Midwest USA with her husband and young son. When she isn't writing or mothering, she enjoys singing at her local church and tending to her garden.
By J.E. Misz Not all paths lead somewhere Like arteries, some just pull you from the heart You don’t have to know where you are going, But it helps to know where you are When a pilot becomes lost in flight, Their first step is to confess To admit that they are lost It won’t illumine the way But they won’t have to pretend anymore Look for landmarks Add another rock to the cairn Or build your own until you find the next one J.E. Misz is a clinical social worker and poet based in Goshen, Indiana. He was a member of Duke University’s College Union Poetry Slam Invitational team in 2015, and he continues to regularly perform his poetry in churches, conferences and open mics on subjects of faith and mental health. In 2018, he self-published a chapbook of his poetry entitled And We Walk.
By Erin Clark It’s hard to spot the outer starting place. Instead, begin at the spiral’s heart, its quick. February crocuses poke, snowbells ring upwards through blood-brown clang of mud. The sun and shade share space, un-aggrieved. Your purpose in this hour is to walk these unknown paths, see your shadow drape across the whorls you’ve traced and those you’ve not. Go. Add your erratic footfall. Sometimes you must leap when there is no clear way. Be upheld by the forecast and the echo of each step: your years in microcosm. Hear the creaking trunks, winterly and wise. Pause in a sun-patch, then keep moving, chill-bid, unseen by the lashless knot-eyes of the dormant orchard, closed in their slow blink. Erin Clark (she/her) is an American writer & priest living in London. Her work has appeared in publications in the US, UK and Canada, including The Selkie, the Oxonian Review, the New Critique, Free Verse Revolution, The Primer, Over/Exposed, the Crank, Geez, About Place and elsewhere. Her debut chapbook Whom Sea Left Behind will be out in 2023 (Alien Buddha Press). You can find her online at emclark.co or on Twitter @e_m_clark.
Erin's other work on Foreshadow: Found poem: upon arrival at the Abbey (Poetry, July 2023) |
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