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)
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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.
By Jack Stewart We don’t know exactly when this was painted, only that soon the little clearing will be empty, the billowing trees casting shade over the shallows. The sky does not dream of soldiers. Calm water does not believe in footprints. The town—is it big enough to be a city?—is almost a smudge in the background. In an hour, the two men fishing will haul in their net, their catch as silver as an angel’s wing. Right now, the family about to pack their few belongings is sheltered in enough green they cannot imagine the brown vastness of their future, the millennia of their story. And all we know is soon a fugitive god will have disappeared, leaving behind a little sun mixed with shade, a few drowsy birds, and the scent of quiet water. 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) By Jack Stewart In Mary’s lap the infant Jesus takes what looks like a cherry from an angel. To the side, another angel, a little older than what Jesus will be when he realizes he is holy, watches to learn how it’s done. Joseph is bored with angels and reads a book while leaning against a rock. In the inlet behind them, two men are poling a skiff and casting a net. Behind them, a bridge no one is crossing, and behind that, a city that has barely awakened, maybe a few housemaids carrying a rug to a window, or a street sweeper has just started work in an alley. Later, Jesus will drop the stem into the underbrush, but now he is fascinated by a piece of fruit that would look like a king’s gem on his chubby little hand. Mary is glad he has something to distract him. Will the soldiers really care about running down a family so common, and how could they track them when a few flaps of an angel’s wings would scatter sand over footprints? Could the dogs resist the smell of the fish the two men will bring to shore? The three will escape, but not primarily because angels have softly shaken their shoulders and told them they should start out, but because while the very rich receive prophecies, the rest of the world doesn’t care about a poor couple who have disappeared with their child into the dark banks of fern. 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) By Bryant Burroughs Creator of the stars at night, your people’s everlasting light St. Ambrose Come, you three, follow me to a space you do not know. A child conceived with no man, God sparking himself in her womb. Angels sing and shepherds run to marvel at this child. You three, hurry, come and marvel. I, Caspar, follow this strange star that shines and moves as if its very motion declares a coming moment in which we must attend. Are we following, or is it pulling us? It curves close and near as if it has secrets to tell. I listen half-expecting it to speak, for it knows more than we do. I, Melchior, follow in fear this poem of God writ large with light. How will we hear the unhearable? How will we learn the unknowable? Who am I to know such secrets? Yet the poem holds the very secrets for which my soul yearns. We hear a rumor of God come near, stepping from behind his house of light. I, Balthasar, walk in step with this star, made in the earliest of days when God clothed the void with light. Now it leads us, a fire in the desert, blazing as in the old stories, a lantern of God dazzling the sky and shooting hope into our hearts. We hear a rumor of a God who visits, a God come near. 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, Hope & Fiction.
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) By Royal Rhodes The night is full of eyes, ranks of speechless stars, that gaze at tilted heads. Flocks and sleeping shepherds, dogs, and midnight creatures the light has shocked in looking. Cascading angel wings like pale and sharpened quills, fill a paper heaven. The eyes of ass and ox, animals in awe, blink in this new light. The little crowd is fixed on gifts of royal glitter, except this tender mother. They shuddered from the cold, but she from all she saw -- a tree and lonely hill. Royal Rhodes taught religious studies for almost 40 years. His poems have appeared in various journals, including Ekstasis, Ekphrastic Review, The Seventh Quarry, and The Montreal Review, among others. His poetry and art collaborations have been published with The Catbird [on the Yadkin] Press in North Carolina.
Royal's other work on Foreshadow: A Road Through Ohio Spring (Poetry, April 2023) A Pilgrim's Song (Poetry, May 2023) Journey to Silence (Poetry, July 2023) Remember David (Poetry, July 2023) Magnolia (Poetry, October 2023) A Morning Walk into Light (Poetry, November 2023) A Crisis of Angels (Poetry, December 2023) By Joy Axelson The Prince of Peace from heaven came, no earthly kingdoms to His name, to save the world through sacrifice, to live a blameless, perfect life. He chose to tread the paths we share; humanity, His driving care. A tiny child born Christmas night, incarnate, banished evil's might. He grew to be the Christ who cried in pain yet rescued as He died. For those who mocked and tortured him, He begged God to forgive their sin. And as He hung in scorn and shame, whisperings of Messiah's name were on the lips of those who knew His mission that was nearly through. One task remained: Emmanuel would break the chains of death and hell. And so He rose on Easter morn to feed fresh faith to all forlorn. He lives to intercede for us -- God’s sacred Gift of Christmas. Joy Nevin Axelson earned a B.A. and an M.A. in French. She also attended Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, Illinois. She’s the translation coordinator for GlobalFingerprints, the Evangelical Free Church of America's child sponsorship branch. Her translations of training materials are used at 14 international sites. She enjoys travelling with her husband and two older children.
By Erin Clark December 29th, the day for making pilgrimage to the shrine of Thomas a Becket They’ve my preferred weak London pils on tap here in the Canterbury pub which bears his name. Turbulent priest, disrupting airways since the twelfth century: he did not put on his own oxygen mask first and so – more miracles, please, martyr, at thy crash-shrine. It’s that week after the holiday, when time wibbles, wobbles, unmoored from month and year. The great Mass always is undone by what follows. Brains addle in these disorganized days. They spill onto the cathedral floor awaiting doom’s knock and choir’s chant, tourists of a murderous king’s shrug. No doubt this town, the seat of British Christendom- that-was, owes its importance to this state-sanctioned honor killing. The days of Christmas puddle at the ankles a low salty tide full of commemorations, barnacles. Here, pub-goers play board games, order roasts. An as-yet-unlit woodstove stands cold against the shy sea breeze blowing in from Ramsgate. I keep my wool hat on and quaff my pint pre-evensong, wherein, I’m told, some hidden hands will hammer at the west doors murderously when the hour is at hand. An intentional ghost in aural time anchoring our present wanderings the crowds who drift and largely shop the sales and, if brave or energetic, bestride the muddy hills, walking in all but a pilgrim fashion. 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) Orchard labyrinth, overgrown (Poetry, August 2023) and there is that Leviathan (Poetry, November 2023) |
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