By Jack Stewart High up, leaf-shadows leap like squirrels across bright spaces. The shade I stand in below is indolent as fog on water. I want to write a line that dreams itself, or touches a face back into memory. Under dead leaves softened from melted snow and spring rain, the syllables of grubs are moving, unseen, unheard, white food. What do you have to be willing to take into your mouth, your belly, to be able to say what you want to say? What do you have to risk you’ll become? Jack Stewart was educated at the University of Alabama and Emory University and was a Brittain Fellow at The Georgia Institute of Technology. His first book, No Reason, was published by the Poeima Poetry Series in 2020, and his work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Poetry, The American Literary Review, Nimrod, Image and others.
Jack's other work on Foreshadow: The Return (Poetry, September 2023) Camel and Needle (Poetry, October 2023) Rest on the Flight into Egypt (1) (Poetry, January 2024) Rest on the Flight into Egypt (2) (Poetry, January 2024)
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By Ryan Keating Standing in front of the painted angel- wing mural black and white on the wall, he isn’t lined up perfectly so they don’t fit well, feet at an angle slanted left skewing perspective, gaze distracted, slumped shirt crumpled at the belt, face down, frowning. But the wings are still spread wide, open from shoulder and collarbone to the edge of the frame, filling a space thought empty and capable of carrying him in flight. We can all see what he doesn’t notice because he is facing the right direction. Ryan Keating is a writer, pastor, and winemaker on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus. His work can be found in publications such as Saint Katherine Review, Ekstasis Magazine, Amethyst Review, Macrina Magazine, Fathom, Dreich, Vocivia and Miras Dergi, where he is a regular contributor in English and Turkish.
Ryan's other work on Foreshadow: Jonah Moves (Poetry, September 2022) Drawing from Deep Wells: Ryan Keating and Pilgrimage (Interview, February 2023) The Wine Remembers (Poetry, June 2023) Presence (Poetry, June 2023) By Charles Hughes Part One Two children and two parents moved from a house they loved, which made the children angry much as when you’ve been shoved. Their new house had stood empty, a long, long way from new. The roof leaked, so they fixed it. Rain kept on leaking through. A field of grass stretched, hilly, behind the house. A hill-- the children, summer evenings, would go if possible. Katie brought chalks and paper for pictures sunsets made. Nathaniel, picturing treasure, dug holes with an old spade. Something about those evenings-- maybe the soil and sky? The children’s anger faded. They couldn’t have said why. One evening as clouds colored, cloud whites to rose-pink smears, and piles of dirt grew taller, slow footsteps jarred their ears. A limping man paused, struggling unsteadily to stand. Katie—protective, older-- reached for Nathaniel’s hand. Part Two The children weren’t that frightened. They’d seen such men before. The year was 1930: hard times; there’d been the war. “That brown house,” Katie pointed. “The church just down the way-- our father’s the new pastor. We . . . Oh! Are you okay?” The man, standing but teetering, fell to one knee, knelt, then after a moment, managed to stand—wobbly—again. His clothes old, frayed—eyes staring as if he’d seen a ghost-- “I’m searching for a relic from the war,” he said, “it’s lost-- “a barbed-wire cross—in ribbon-- crimson—laced, sewn in place-- too fine for my jacket pocket.” Tears glistened on his face. “A friend died who had made it,” he told them, looking where Nathaniel stooped low, digging. The cross was buried there. Both children watched him limping, going back the way he’d come, until the twilight hid him. The children started home. Part Three The man sat at the table. A Sunday dinner. Rain outside dripped on the ceiling. He ate and tried to explain. Nathaniel elbowed Katie. No reason. He was bored. Their mother glared a warning. Patience, she prayed to the Lord. The man, more ragged, hungry-- but answering what he could-- spoke of the war, the sadness, the beauty of the food. Charles Hughes has published two books of poems, The Evening Sky (2020) and Cave Art (2014), both from Wiseblood Books. His poems have appeared in the Alabama Literary Review, Amethyst Review, The Christian Century, Literary Matters, the Saint Katherine Review and elsewhere. He worked for over 30 years as a lawyer and lives in the Chicago, Illinois, area with his wife.
Charles' other work on Foreshadow: Valediction (Poetry, May 2023) By Yevgeniya Przhebelskaya My church friend Rachel shares John 10:10, Her favorite Bible verse on how faith brings joy into her creative life. She has critiqued my poems and essays selflessly again, And she inspires me to be a better mom and a kinder wife. People may look at church folks as if we were silly simple-minded prudes, Too scared to drink wine or wander into the darkness of the Internet. Rachel tells me that her visual art, like her life, Deals with sorrow, social justice, the now and the not-yet. To understand art, poems, the Bible, or even our changing kids, A second or even a 10th close look is what it often takes. Rachel and I sharpen each other's artistic eyes, While our kids pretend to be adventurers during our playdates. Yevgeniya Przhebelskaya is a freelance writer who explores the themes of mental health, neurodiversity, and Christian faith in her writing. Her essays and poems have been published or are forthcoming in Agape Review, Amethyst Review, Ancient Paths Online, Ekstasis, Trouvaille Review and many other publications, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize two times. Yevgeniya lives with her husband and their son in New Jersey. Check out her blog at https://ypoetry.weebly.com/.
By Ron Riekki “Thou hast made me” --John Donne, Holy Sonnets “To be” --William Shakespeare, Hamlet I feel the same thing in my bones, how long of life I’ve led, so that now it’s starting to feel as if I belong in hospitals, as if they’re my new home, and yet I’m created in the image of God, which makes me think of hurt, of pain, of-- of course—crucifixion, and I am embarrassed at how it hurts to move, but such a blessing too to be able to move, to pick up a pen, come back to my bed, and write this poem, to see the page, even if my eyes blur, but to have eyes, to have breath, to have. It is so much having, this body. Hoping I have love and faith and this strength and dedication to be good. To have gratitude, lungs full of it, blood full of it. Gratias tibi. Ron Riekki's most recent book is We're Also Wounded. Right now, he's listening to the John Donne documentary De l'Érotique au Sacré: une vie déchirée.
By Michael Braswell Life is short Make a difference Perseverance more than ability is key Keep trying Even when you are the victim of injustice Even when you yourself are unjust Keep trying Be kind to those around you Be kind to yourself as well And when you are not Keep trying And be encouraging Especially when there is no reason to be Seek completion not perfection Seek truth not power Sooner or later the truth will set you free But not before it beats the hell out of you Keep trying Answers long forgotten, the question remains: When will the peace that passes understanding come? Not at the end of conflict but in its midst Peace is a long-shot Justice even more so Sometimes long-shots come in Believe that they will From peace within to peace without From being just to justice for all Keep trying Michael Braswell is a retired university teacher and former prison psychologist. He has published books on ethics, peacemaking and the spiritual journey as well as several short story collections.
'Peacemaking Boogie' was first published in Justice, Crime and Ethics (Routledge Books). It has been republished here with the author's permission. By Scot Martin Fear is an over- reaction; the right response, perhaps, is respect. The small, wingéd demon only eight inches from where I sit. Oblivious to me, Dolichovespula maculata (not the name Adam bestowed) placidly gnaws on the dead, barkless cottonwood. Dare I smash this vespid? Possessing a spectral face-- white patches on its head and thorax, glossy, solid black eyes—(almost a death’s head in miniature) spawner of sweaty terror and feverish dreams of “revenge and doubt.” Why the desire within to destroy the hornet? Equally troubling, bubbling in myself, a phrase: “For if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God…” I inhale as it flies away with mandibles full of wood pulp. Scot F. Martin lives with his family and teaches high school English in the Rouge River watershed in southeast Michigan. He has been published in Jesus the Imagination, Front Porch Republic, Stand, Ignatian Solidarity Network, Flourish and other analog and digital publications.
Scot's previous work on Foreshadow: untitled (Poetry, October 2023) By E R Skulmoski Cold stars splinter above my head as a river dissolves stones in my throat clawing the history off my skin, shedding whispers of childhood secrets where I pretended to be a ghost walking through walls of trees. At some point they bent those trees backwards, almost cracking my head. But I got so good at being a ghost that no screams slid out of my throat. And I got so good at hiding secrets, it all blended into my skin. I thought I needed a thicker skin maybe like that of bark from trees expanding to hide more secrets, wrapping galaxies around my head. So I placed stones at the entrance of my throat, hoarding their dead horses and my ghost. But I am a temple of the Holy Ghost Whatever is in my body washes up on my skin, and eventually it will exit my throat. I took that to mean hiding in dead trees and lobotomizing galaxies that are in my head. I took that to mean setting secret fires to those hours of written secrets. but ... … ... the Holy Ghost groans and hears the fires in my head raging as more stains snake off my skin. Now, I can do nothing but cling to His tree. Now, I can do nothing but reach down my throat. With my fingers I pluck those stones off my throat and allow God to take all my secrets. I spit them out green and heavy at the foot of His tree, allowing lovingkindness to pour over my ghost as He removes Cain's mark from my skin as He rids me of whatever they say is all in my head. So my throat gave up my childhood ghost. Secrets oozed out the pores of my skin. My head now clear, my body now a tree planted by the river. E R Skulmoski is a poet who lives in the interior of British Columbia with her husband and four children. She homeschools her children and writes poetry and short stories in her spare time. You can follow her on Instagram @emily_skulmoski and read more of her work at https://ofisandwas.substack.com/.
E R's previous work on Foreshadow: God, Tell Me What It Means (Poetry, October 2023) By Mark D. Stucky Jesus told us to consider the birds of the air. I have pondered parakeets (budgies) in a cage routinely performing what seems impossible. No, not flying. (They fly rather poorly.) It’s the posture they keep as they sleep. Usually before closing their eyes, they puff out their colorful feathers, precariously balance on just one slender leg, twist their heads halfway around, and nestle their beaks under the backs of their wings. How can they do that? Why would they want to? No human could hold such an improbable pose, not even in yoga, let alone while dreaming. I’ve puzzled over those tiny amazing acts that birds do daily with little thought and no explanation of their motives to me. Although I can’t replicate their strange stance, to those tiny birds, I am godlike. They periodically chirp loud petitionary prayers for me to give them this day their daily birdseed. But omnipotent and omniscient I’m clearly not. Those winged unlikely wonders mystify me. Perhaps if I could enter their caged existence and take on the feathered form of a fellow bird, they would softly warble their secrets to me, and I to them. I treasure miniature miracles in implausible places. And if a fluff of feathers can perform such wonders, surely the God of the universe can go bigger and better, can fling a star-like light across Bethlehem’s sky, can create conception in a virgin by divine in vitro, can take on flesh in our own featherless form, and can croon to us heavenly dreams. Mark D. Stucky has degrees in religious studies, pastoral ministry and communications. After being a pastor, he was a technical and freelance writer for three decades. In free time, he wrote articles, stories and poems on a variety of (usually spiritual) topics. He received over three dozen writing and publication awards. For more writings, see cinemaspirit.info.
'Consider the Birds' was originally published in Small Town Anthology VI: Entries from the Sixth Annual Tournament of Writers (Vicksburg Cultural Arts Center, 2020). It has been republished here with the author's permission. By Kellie Brown Water still clings in dense droplets to the tips of leaves even though the sun wakened hours ago. Last night's downpours cleansed nature's unswept strains, and with dawn's ascent murky shadows bow to the razzle-dazzle of heavenly beams. Beneath a canopy of dense, doused branches little birds—wrens, sparrows, finches feast at feeders, their hunger pure as freshly washed earth. “Look to the birds of the air,” offered the Rabbi. So I do. And I pray with St. Francis, our bird whisperer, Make me an instrument… Fashioned from faith, Attuned to peace, Resonant with love. Dr. Kellie Brown is a violinist, conductor, music educator and award-winning writer whose book, The Sound of Hope: Music as Solace, Resistance and Salvation during the Holocaust and World War II (McFarland Publishing, 2020), received one of the Choice Outstanding Academic Titles awards. Her words have appeared in Earth & Altar, Psaltery & Lyre, Ekstasis, The Primer, Agape Review and Calla Press, among others. In addition to over 30 years of music ministry experience, she is a certified lay minister in the United Methodist Church and currently serves at First Broad Street United Methodist Church in Kingsport, Tennessee. More information about her and her writing can be found at kelliedbrown.com.
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