By Carl Winderl on that starry starry silent night in His stone cold manger pondering just what Is It God hath wrought in that slightly more than a pound of flesh, or so about to be some day, soon in a couple weeks or so to feel the knife’s slice . . . as if some sacrificial lamb He will sometime be. but til then, on this bleak midwinter night in the silence of His Mother’s smile I see Him there enwrapped as if some Handful of clay created “how” . . . but for now, cradled in a swaddling of Flesh. . . . 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).
Carl's other work on Foreshadow: kneeling at the Manger (Poetry, December 2022) at the anti-tower (Poetry, June 2022) At Judas' funeral (Poetry, March 2022) A Writer Is Always at Work (Part 1 of 2) (Interview, May 2021)
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By Carl Winderl staffs at their sides, hushed mouths agape, reeking not of frankincense and myrrh, but of linseed oil, sulfur, pitch, and tar, these rough men stare, stunned by My Son’s birth, shocked in amazed gazing, at Him. Their faces though I recognize, they’re the providers of the Paschal lambs, at Passover for the Temple, they breed and they take from the ewes their firstborns to bleed and suffer, sacrificed to atone for Israel’s sin, but when their shepherd eyes meet mine I see on their adoring faces a glimpse of mute surprise, some wonder; in an eyebrow’s rise dis- belief, while something in their furtive sidelong glances causes me to further ponder more, for they have been trained to know a sacrificial lamb when they see One 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).
'kneeling at the Manger' first appeared in The Christian Century. It has been republished here with the author's permission. Carl's other work on Foreshadow: at the anti-tower (Poetry, June 2022) 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) By Abigail Leigh Stripped of vision, I fumble on the cliff-edge against the rush and roar of ocean armies—feud for foothold salt and wind biting my eyes And my outer self rips away-- A tremor shifts the mountain, my faith too just like my legs, my spirit folds in on itself; ground and grief piling on top. Into the abyss I dive interrogate shadows, excavate for answers. What’s unveiled—earth’s veil the heavens dawning as morning light like brightness after rain an imperishable promise sprouting over an impermanent problem For a weighted world: eternity—light And this assured insurance dispels disbelief Suddenly, bowed valleys rise up laden stones roll away a path through the sea—revealed uncrushed, my soul walks forward does not grow weary. I am binding hope to my heart: over that hill I will be, eyes stretched, waiting-- And behold, a beacon across open sea, seen ascending, glorious! The power of the waves The throat of the wind The promised sun—rising! You are there, God You are here. Abigail Leigh is a harpist and poet from Oregon. As a self-proclaimed paradox, both a creative and analytical being, she draws inspiration from life's dichotomies: the belief that light and darkness, growth and decay, and joy and sorrow travel in tandem. Every season has a story to tell, and she writes because she is committed to unveiling truth from learned experiences. Her poetry has been published in Darling Magazine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Equinox Biannual Journal and Clayjar Review.
Abigail's other work on Foreshadow: A Deeper Calling (Poetry, October 2022) The Mountain Sermon (Poetry, October 2022) The Fruitless Tenant (Poetry, October 2022) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Bryant Burroughs Each day that comes before soon becomes a yesterday. Its skies awaken with hope, then the sun moves, and stars play, and the day fades away, lost in our three-score-and-ten scope, wherein even two millennia of days blink past. We survive all our days but our last. Then we, too, fade away to await the Youngest Day. The Youngest Day will neither age nor wane. Our false king, Imperial Time, long our master and bane, will be unnoticed, immaterial, as on Christmas Day with family all around, or holding hands walking in the rain, or a fresh dawn with birdsong its only sound. And Time, with death and tears in train, will be exiled to a shore far away. And we, awakened and washed clean, will be undefiled on the Youngest Day. Bryant Burroughs is a writer and lives with his wife Ruth in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats. His work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith and Hope & Fiction.
Bryant's other work on Foreshadow: The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022) Please support us by sharing this post and buying us a book. By Alan Altany Lethal gateways to mortal demise, the Seven Deadlies mock divine love, sneering at all godly virtues with a tolling of pure disdain. Pride is an egocentric spinning, a centripetal conceit of fierce hubris, contempt for God’s blazing acts of ultimate humility. Envy is the devil’s finest resentment leading to the living of constant dying, a perpetual blaming and craving that voids every remnant of charity. Wrath’s wild rages expose renegade emotions, like feral mustangs pounding the earth with abandon, having none of the Crucified Christ’s merciful patience. Sloth discloses a mediocre body and soul, too sedated with ennui to care for anyone, languishing in vain idleness, so spiritually lukewarm as to preclude fruitful diligence. Greed generates a fantasy lure for ever-elusive satisfaction and powerful pleasures that disorder and spurn all the gracious good found in generosity. Gluttony is eating, drinking, drugging beyond the pale, where self-stuffings create gods out of ego-addictions, leaving no room for tolerating any temperance. Lust’s deluded seductions are many in kind, base desires with no intimacy, a full immersion into transient carnal power without the moral dignity and courage of chastity. Yet all the Deadlies are divinely forgivable and lose their dreadful odors in sorrowing repentance where scars of awe-struck healing descend from the virtue of God. Alan Altany, Ph.D., is a septuagenarian college professor of religious studies. He’s been a factory worker, swineherd on a farm, hotel clerk, lawn maintenance worker, small magazine of poetry editor, director of religious education for churches, truck driver, novelist, etc. He published a book of poetry in 2022 entitled A Beautiful Absurdity: Christian Poetry of the Sacred. His website is at https://www.alanaltany.com/.
'The Seven Deadlies' first appeared in A Beautiful Absurdity: Christian Poetry of the Sacred. It has been republished here with the author's permission. Alan's previous work on Foreshadow: Grunewald's Crucifixion (Poetry, September 2022) Habit of Being Wise (Poetry, October 2022) Please support us by sharing this post and buying us a book. By Linda McCullough Moore It’s impossible to sneeze with your eyes open. When you sneeze, all your body functions stop, even your heart. Still, I keep trying. Linda McCullough Moore is the author of two story collections, a novel, an essay collection and more than 350 shorter published works. She is the winner of the Pushcart Prize, as well as winner and finalist for numerous national awards. Her first story collection was endorsed by Alice Munro, and equally as joyous, she frequently hears from readers who write to say her work makes a difference in their lives. For many years, she has mentored award-winning writers of fiction, poetry and memoir. She is currently completing a novel, Time Out of Mind, and a collection of her poetry. www.lindamcculloughmoore.com
Linda's other work on Foreshadow: A Little Thing I Wrote (Poetry, October 2022) Wait It Out (Poetry, October 2022) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Steven Searcy Of course you will be misunderstood. Christ was a coward, cold and uncaring, reckless, foolish, a loner, a lush, arrogant, ill-tempered, soft, and strange, a troublemaker, a small, stupid man, a meaningless martyr. What are you? Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta, Georgia, where he earns a living working as an engineer in fibre optic telecommunications. His poetry has been published in
Ekstasis Magazine, Reformed Journal, Fathom Magazine and The Clayjar Review. Steven's other work on Foreshadow: Morning Prayer (Poetry, August 2022) Do What Cannot Be Left Undone (Poetry, September 2022) Being (Poetry, October 2022) Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Linda McCullough Moore April waiting I intend to spend in a bus station in Falls Creek, Pennsylvania, where in 1956 my aunt Delores – no, I didn't like her – bought me peach pie, a piece – yes, homemade – expecting I'd be nice to her. Because. The waiting room, old then, before these sixty years clock-ticked, drop-kicked my life. Gray lint, gum wrappers bussed here from America, something rumpled in the corner, a ragged shirt a man from Lithuania worked eleven hours for, wrinkled tickets, a carry-all no one has opened since the war before the war. The ticket window's closed. The tattered magazines named Look and Life and Cosmopolitan. (Why Men Pay for Love, p. 17.) My mother will not wonder where I am. The air is cold, old gasoline perfumes rust on the radiator. No sound arrives, no hiss, exhaust, no bus’s exhalation. I‘m seventy-two years old. I still have homework due on Monday. My childhood wasn't much. It's all I think about. Linda McCullough Moore is the author of two story collections, a novel, an essay collection and more than 350 shorter published works. She is the winner of the Pushcart Prize, as well as winner and finalist for numerous national awards. Her first story collection was endorsed by Alice Munro, and equally as joyous, she frequently hears from readers who write to say her work makes a difference in their lives. For many years, she has mentored award-winning writers of fiction, poetry and memoir. She is currently completing a novel, Time Out of Mind, and a collection of her poetry. www.lindamcculloughmoore.com
Linda's other work on Foreshadow: A Little Thing I Wrote (Poetry, October 2022) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Steven Searcy He is still sitting with me-- the gentleman I saw hunched over his walker, slowly making his way down the sidewalk in the park early Friday morning, and how he paused to make the sign of the cross to the empty tree-lined path laid out before him. Oh, my frantic, fractious heart needs the patient peace each day to pause, smile, and say: I can move! I can breathe! I can be! Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta, Georgia, where he earns a living working as an engineer in fibre optic telecommunications. His poetry has been published in Ekstasis Magazine, Reformed Journal, Fathom Magazine, and The Clayjar Review.
Steven's other work on Foreshadow: Morning Prayer (Poetry, August 2022) Do What Cannot Be Left Undone (Poetry, September 2022) Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Michael Lyle Zebedee sits in the boat among the torn nets and sees his sons walk away with the Nazarene. His burnt cheeks sting, embarrassed to be heartbroken in front of the hired men, watching the brothers disappear down the shore as Galilee laps the hull. Michael Lyle is the author of the poetry chapbook The Everywhere of Light (Plan B Press), and his poems have appeared widely, including in Atlanta Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Crannóg, The Hollins Critic, Mudfish and Poetry East. He lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
Michael's other work on Foreshadow: Wick of the Soul (Poetry, October 2022) Tennis Players (Poetry, October 2022) Yahweh (Poetry, October 2022) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. |
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