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By Emma Winchell Would that my accumulations Reach the height of expectation That they would murmur in the cosmos With the rippling constellations Yet every accolade evaporates into—a breath Or curves into the etching of my marble epitaph Emma is a writer for the Literary Practicum at the Moody Bible Institute. Her work has been published in Thin Space Art & Theology Journal and Ekstasis, the creative journal of Christianity Today. You can read more of her poetry here.
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By Carl Winderl of babel, I was there. not on the ground floor of it but in the Upper Room of It. the difference easy to know and to sense if you’d been there as was I thence with the Self-Same Spirit Present as at the Annunciation. so, at the end, at the Very End when the anti- christ will roam how to know and how to sense the Difference from him to Him My Son simple, be alert to the Spirit. Carl Winderl holds a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from New York University and maintains a home in San Diego, California. He is the author of the poetry book, The Gospel According. . . to Mary (Finishing Line Press, 2021), and he is currently serving Ukrainian refugees with his wife in Poland (read more here).
Carl's other work on Foreshadow: At Judas' funeral (Poetry, March 2022) A Writer Is Always at Work (Part 1 of 2) (Interview, May 2021) A Writer Is Always at Work (Part 2 of 2) (Interview, June 2021) Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. By Matthew J. Andrews After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the poem to load. Sulaymaniyah, Iraq, 2010 The Kurdish man is first. He doesn’t speak a language any of us can understand, so he plays a song with a hand-carved flute, a haunting tune that soars and collapses, so expressive I do not need his words. The Canadian woman is next. She is peace- hardened, older, her body riddled with bullet holes from guns not fired. In a bouncing cadence, as a teacher might, she sings in Swahili a song she learned around a campfire ages ago. The American man goes after. He is young, fidgety with optimism, eyes fixed forward. He reads a poem, a swaying free verse piece he wrote that afternoon, about the horror he now knows, and about the light beneath it. It is my turn. All eyes are on me, but I am frozen in the flickering of their fire. What do I have to offer this soul-soaked communion? What can I contribute to this assembly, this global congress of song? Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer from California. He is the author of the chapbook I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember, and his work has appeared in Relief, Rust + Moth, Pithead Chapel and EcoTheo Review, among others. He can be contacted at matthewjandrews.com.
Matthew's other work on Foreshadow: Jonah and the King (Poetry, March 2022) Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. By Laura Arendt The nails of racial prejudice are driven into the palms of Jesus of Nazareth. The nail of humanity’s injustice is driven into his feet. The sword of hatred cuts deeply into his side. A crown of 12 intertwining thorns are pressed upon his head. His royalty mocked amongst the tribes. With his last breath he cries out to his Father, As his body goes Lifeless, Limp, Empty. The Savior dead, at the hands of an old and fallen empire... Driven to the ground, The knee of racism pressed into his neck, With all the weight of humanity’s injustice. Hatred stealing the breath from his soul, as he cried out to his mother, As his body went Lifeless, Limp, Empty. Another black man dead at the hands of the American Empire. Eight Minutes Forty-Six Seconds. The blood spilt out on the old rugged cross, cries out from the martyred streets of Memphis From the streets of Oakland & Ferguson The streets of Cleveland & Philadelphia Streets of Louisville & Sanford On the streets of Minneapolis. Say their names! Oscar Grant Michael Brown Tamir Rice Eric Garner Trayvon Martin Breonna Taylor George Floyd Say their names!!! Oh yes-- Justice will prevail, If we keep marching. Compassion will be lived out If we keep testifying. Mercy will anoint And heal our brokenness If we keep praying. The Kingdom is on the horizon with the promise of the prophet’s dream. And love---- Oh how she will arrive, On the wings of God’s holy peace! Glory, glory Amen! Laura Arendt is a theopoet who became more intentional about her writing while earning her Masters of Divinity at Bethany Theological Seminary in Richmond, IN (USA). She grew up in Gettysburg, PA, but now resides in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she enjoys living with her beloved life partner, John.
Laura's other work on Foreshadow: - Testify (Poetry, January 2022) - Second-Hand World (Poetry, May 2022) Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. By Alina Sayre If it is good, it is God. Yellow puffs of roadside oxalis, bright angular graffiti. Sailboats, white triangles drifting on a blue bay. Highway drivers-- beards, wrinkles, eyeliner, earbuds-- a pit bull smearing his nose on a back window. Alina Sayre is the award-winning author of five books and a graduate student of theopoetics at Bethany Theological Seminary. You can learn more about her work here.
Alina's other work on Foreshadow: By Laura Arendt Petals of lavender dance in the Spring breeze, Fog settles and rests quietly in the dew drop fields. But the morning sun, Oh how she rises! Her hopeful light bursts forth, and her colorful hues reflect her Creator's passion. Oh how she rises! A new day has been set into motion, as new mercies shine forth upon this second-hand world. Father time winds his clock and the day closes as quickly as it began. The evening sun travels West. Oh how she sets! Gracefully leaving the horizon with one last reminder of how she ruled the skies. She leads a trail for the moon to follow through the stardust. Oh how she sets! The moon clothes himself in starlight, as he reflects the Creator's passion. The day comes to an end as awe, Wonder, and mystery sweep through this second-hand world. Laura Arendt is a theopoet who became more intentional about her writing while earning her Masters of Divinity at Bethany Theological Seminary in Richmond, IN (USA). She grew up in Gettysburg, PA, but now resides in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she enjoys living with her beloved life partner, John.
Laura's other work on Foreshadow: - Testify (Poetry, January 2022) By Josh Seligman Hymn tune: BUNESSAN ('Morning has broken') Jesus is risen! I will go with him Into the morning of the new day Sorrow to swallow, New paths to follow As the world opens in his new way. Jesus is risen! All the world, listen: Done are the days when death ruled as king Can you believe it? Will you receive him? Jesus the Lord fulfills everything. Jesus is risen! Let us rise with him To live the story death tried to close Praise with your laughter Praise with your whole life Praise like the first light when he arose! Josh Seligman is the editor of Foreshadow.
By Alexandra O'Sullivan “I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” – Rom 12:1 Blood was first spilled to cover their nakedness – Adam & Eve, our parents – an animal, innocent, slain to dress in mercy their shame and guilt. A shadow and a typeform of the temple where lambs bleating had their throats slit to wash our guilt for yet another day. An imperfect system never perfecting. Living sacrifices being lifted onto altars burning while men’s hearts grew cold and weary searching for liberation. Then finally it came, or rather, He – the One who put His glory down, like a king would his scepter, and joined the huddled mess of humanity in our dust, sin, and struggle. He had no form or majesty or beauty that we should look to Him, a root miraculously growing out of dry ground, yet from Him a flood of Life came quenching. His knees calloused, His hands healing, His life lifted up and given, a perfect sacrifice bleeding crimson, permeating, the dust, the sin, the struggle of humanity’s hardened, hopeless heart. The Savior, Son, and image of what we must become as temples of His Holy Spirit, our bodies, our wills, our hearts the altar where the Sacred Flame does its holy work. In the burning and the wrestle, our ways conform to His, as our hips are touched and ever-humbled (ever-hobbled), as we learn to lean on Him. Our imperfect lives, a living sacrifice, our reasonable worship accepted, forever being perfected and pleasing to the One who came & covered us. Alexandra O'Sullivan is a wife, mother and amateur poet from Texas. She has been published in Ekstasis Magazine.
By Emma McCoy I walk through the desert with no complete question. This warm and shapeless town has yet to remember the things it will forget. It would much rather bury him and treat the betrayal like the darkest feat of sin. But the air is full of regret tonight, the kind that comes with a sunset. If God loved Judas like He’s loving me, why did he die at the end of a noose, choking and swinging from an olive tree? Judas saw the Messiah come from God and wanted to see the Roman world lose. When the sun sets we sit, Judas and me, missing the point, under an olive tree. Emma McCoy is a literature student at Point Loma Nazarene University, California. Much of her poetry explores biblical narratives through re-imagination, closed forms and a close look at the structures and imagery of the original stories. When she's not writing, she spends her time outdoors chasing the downhill -- either skiing or mountain-biking. Emma's other poems on Foreshadow: - a voice in the darkness (October 2021) - the third movement of Genesis (January 2021) - To Cross the Jordan (June 2021) Related work on Foreshadow: - At Judas' funeral (Poetry by Carl Winderl) From the Editor: This poem about missing the point describes how Judas misunderstands Jesus' calling, which is to save the world -- not through force, but through sacrificial love.
By Alina Sayre After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the reading to load. Seams tatter while my body ages, greys. No night or morning. Empty months ooze by. My soul sleeps, adrift through shoreless days. Babies swell, are born outside of public gaze, eat yams, grow teeth, learn to laugh and cry. Seams tatter while my body ages, greys. Suspended animation is this phase. Time, a lifeless board-pinned butterfly. My soul sleeps, adrift through shoreless days. Push poisoned hugs and smiles six feet away. Blue surgical paper swallows all but eyes. Seams tatter while my body ages, greys. Frozen in our separate amber day by day, for love we sacrifice—at least we try. My soul sleeps, adrift through shoreless days. Sun warms my sealed eyelids with its rays. I dream of waking under cloudless skies. Seams tatter while my body ages, greys. My soul sleeps, adrift through shoreless days. Alina Sayre is the award-winning author of five books and a graduate student of theopoetics at Bethany Theological Seminary. You can learn more about her work here. You can also hear more about 'Sleepwalker' here. Alina's other work on Foreshadow: Related work on Foreshadow:
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