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A walled-off acre
filled with corridors of flowers and herbs and healing plants seemed that it had come from paper packages of seeds a Shaker Eldress made. Vines and curling tendrils rose up straight so like a straight-back chair ascends, a final ladder angels climb to heaven amidst the foliage of a city hiding holy beings. Disheveled weeds in pandemonium have spread across embankments and beyond my sight with speckled butterflies and birds. A simulacrum of our place of first beginnings, now with insistent fists of fuchsia of vivid shades of violet. The garden is a vestibule to a house of plenty, where on an antique table a still-life lingers for a day. And spiders in their own mythic anonymity have spun a gauze that covers everything from a long abandoned wedding, a raiment only worn by ghosts. And in recesses of my broken head deeper darkness hints at dawn, as it catches light and then ignites the vision of a widened world that weds both gift and grace that will return me to the garden I will then get lost in. -- Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught courses on Early, Medieval, Reformation and Modern Christianity. He lives in a small village in the heartland of Ohio, surrounded by a nature conservancy and Amish farms.
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Have you stood silently
surrounded by the crescent sweep of planted daffodils and abundant lilies-of-the-valley with an angel at the gate guardian of the garden keeping out despair? Or seen hydrangea globes let direct sunlight change their palette of pastels? Walk beside the chosen rocks that are a threshold from grass to flower beds and the stones scooped out with water pockets that draw the thirsty birds. This is a sight to slake my own deep thirst. Beside a day-lighted stream and granite steps moisture-loving plants abound and there, look quickly, is a peacock in the shade displaying a hundred eyes watching over our steps -- Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught courses on Early, Medieval, Reformation and Modern Christianity. He lives in a small village in the heartland of Ohio, surrounded by a nature conservancy and Amish farms. Gracie sits beside me at the pot-luck luncheon.
She wears lacy half-sleeves to cover her tattoos now that she is born again. Those arms flash out in frustration toward my piled-high plate when I compliment her string-bean casserole, and I mean it—it is good. “No,” she insists. “If it hadn’t sat in the church kitchen through the long morning service, with moisture gathering under the foil, the onions on top would have stayed crispy. Instead they’re mushy. I just wish you could’ve tasted it before.” I understand. Once, my offering was at its finest, fresh, poised, and able like crisp onions. Now I am unseemly, white, and frayed, my song like soggy bellows. I aged out of freshness in my turn, as happens after decades of long services spent under foil. Yet, as I live, something tasty may persist, and while I wish you could’ve tasted it before, this is what I have to share anymore. -- Michelle Shelfer and her husband, Jerry, operate a non-profit called Prepare a Room Ministries, which seeks to help those hurt by abortion and disciple the next generation to embrace life and the Giver of life. Her poetry has been published in Ekstasis, Penwood Review and Solid Food Press. Her poetic themes often centre around motherhood. She can be found at michelleshelfer.substack.com/ and on social media at @preparearoom. Splintered bones set hard, out of place.
I limp among those I cherish, gripping onto furniture, before I sit, defeated. From the crucifix, your steadfast eyes say, What’s mine is yours. To offer this pitted stone—my heart—is pain; but you do not take a hammer. Quiet light penetrates, halos me, burns the muscle-memory that mires my feet. How cheap the word miracle—one step, and now immersed in grace, I stride, serene, across the river’s bridge. The agony was always yours. The pasture greens. Your breath is holy. I fill my lungs. -- Emma-Jane Peterson writes for magazines in the US and the UK, where she lives. Her poems are published in BoomerLitMag, The Clayjar Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Metphrastics, Penstricken, Black Nore Review, Prosectrics and Pure in Heart, among others. She is the co-author of a book of children’s Bible stories (Parragon). Clumped among the frothing mounds,
flung onto shore, a tiny wholeness in baby bib overalls, awaits the finding: this is what you have for me. Brush away the flies—shoo now, gull! unweave fingers of emerald, garnet, opal seaweed, and midwife a new sort of glean from out the lashing waters onto my-side, land-side, sand-wide world. Make his cradle in the turn of my hand and lift him to where my neck is a cleft to share dry skin and warm, encircled by wind moans in lullaby. We both are foundlings found in the finding. All that the tides have snatched from us is now repaid in this, a crowning catch-- perfect transfer of seed to the barren, speech to the silent, orphan to his rest. -- Michelle Shelfer and her husband, Jerry, operate a non-profit called Prepare a Room Ministries, which seeks to help those hurt by abortion and disciple the next generation to embrace life and the Giver of life. Her poetry has been published in Ekstasis, Penwood Review and Solid Food Press. Her poetic themes often centre around motherhood. She can be found at michelleshelfer.substack.com/ and on social media at @preparearoom. The evening breeze through the window,
As I look back into the low Tree dancing to the silent play Of clouds and moon, and hue of gray; Pale blackness on the deep'ning sky, Its shades of dark made beautiful By lack of light, absence of ray, When silence ends a Maker’s day-- Empty'ng beauty. Bending echo Of weathered creation outgrows The night. Then, a low distant cry Striates hist'ry. Lost in time full Laces of blue displayed his rule, While the trees sing its Lullaby. -- Yannick Imbert teaches theology in southern France at Faculté Jean Calvin. He is a Tolkien scholar and publishes books and articles at the intersection of theology and culture. He has also published online in Transpositions, Ekstasis, Macrina, Inklings Studies and other theological journals. He writes in French at delagracedansencrier.com. What a waste to be hiding,
didn’t we think? So I gave you my sight line and the quiver behind, shedding several old skins in the course of my tears. You rowed down that river, the heart of my darkness, and tethered your soul to the floodplain spine. You were a part of my yesterday, my tomorrow too, and this moment, I’m hoping, in the wounds broken open, the courage you planted finally took. And I’ll grow into love because of you. -- For K.P. and R.H. Aisling Cruz is a Midwest-based poet and artist. Her work has appeared in Gotham Literature, Agape Review and Oyster River Pages, among others. In my soul is a gate
I cross every morning, Mindful of the great Bright dawn daily rising. I cross every morning, The threshold of my soul – Bright dawn daily rising Of His constant presence. The threshold of my soul – Ambiguous border Of His constant presence – Receptacle of Grace. Ambiguous border: In my soul is a gate, Receptacle of grace. In my soul is a gate. -- Yannick Imbert teaches theology in southern France at Faculté Jean Calvin. He is a Tolkien scholar and publishes books and articles at the intersection of theology and culture. He has also published online in Transpositions, Ekstasis, Macrina, Inklings Studies and other theological journals. He writes in French at delagracedansencrier.com. after artist Michael Healy
Can I hold your image as the panes of glass? There the golden sunrise nudges up the field, rosy luminescence bleeds out from a flower. The blueness of water skips on the rock that once carved a valley from the spotted hills. Every place you walk in whinnies with light, though I often do not notice this. Sometimes I spend hours wanting to be noticed, just to find myself curled over your shoulder, covered in dust and merino spirals. You tell me I have been here for years. -- Aisling Cruz is a Midwest-based poet and artist. Her work has appeared in Gotham Literature, Agape Review and Oyster River Pages, among others. I’m not good with plants
But I found this seed, if you can help. There are some cracks, Exposure has caused it to suffer. The soil doesn’t look good: Dry and inhospitable. Are you surrounding it with manure? Is that the right thing to do? The plant looks sick. Ashen leaves with brittle branches. Do we need to resoil? Replant? Will fresh water be enough to save it? Can you take this seed, this dream, in my heart – That time and heartache have beaten down, And make it something more? Will you breathe new life into this and cause something to grow? -- Kris Green lives in Florida with his beautiful wife and two savage children. He’s been published over 60 times in the last few years by the wonderful people at Nifty Lit, The Haberdasher: Peddlers of Literary Art, In Parentheses Magazine, Route 7 Review, BarBar Magazine and many more. He won the 2023 Barbe Best Short Story and Reader’s Choice Award for his short story, 'Redemption'. Currently, he has regular nonfiction articles being published by Solid Food Press on fatherhood entitled 'On Raising Savages'. |