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By Alan Altany “… the action of grace in territory held largely by the devil.” Flannery O’Connor A good man now is harder to find among the standardized waste land violence that bears hope away despite the triumphs of profane progress and techno-futurisms in the wizened blood of the times. Original misfitting of the soul is scoffed in a nihilistic clouding with hubris seeing the grotesque and the dearth of God as natural, with no immunity from the disease of a dark-rising and crippling culture. A contrary-wise “Christ-haunted” prophet pushes theological absurdity “towards the limits of mystery” in maimed stories of memento mori and of a salvation long- forgotten and even longer disdained as a medieval relic of a reckless God brutally dying for dreary-down souls. In this modern age of radically ungraced self-saving and hapless secular sufficiency, a local lady tells stories of divine comedy breaking open infernally brazen addictions to oblivion, blazing tumultuously graced, shocking faith where in an ironical city always “the good is under construction”, and evil suffers itself towards the sacred. 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/.
'Habit of Being Wise' 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) Please support us by sharing this post and buying us a book.
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By Abigail Leigh One day, He’ll tell me “It’s time.” No chance to gather my years To pack up relationships To sign across the line It will be a day Begun just as others Then, with trumpet sounded Clouds will be parted The vineyard master reappearing My tenancy expired By herald hastened I’ll climb the hill Blow out my lamps Look upon entrusted fields below The ones promised—tomorrow Still to plow, unripened now “Too busy!” my plea Preparing to be busy Shall reap solely season-sown futility “Too worried!” my apology Worrying what worry was left unworried Shall inherit merely misused opportunity “Too distracted!” my confession Digging up the next distraction Shall unearth but poor-stewarded possession “Too perceptive!“ my rationalization Perceiving perceivers’ possible perceptions Shall produce not proper-planted attentions Days of cultivation and harvest Threshed before Him What have they to say-- A seedbed left un-watered? A garden tended half-hearted? A branch, by thorns, overgrown? A foundation without Cornerstone? What fruit have I to give To the One whom I now beg—forgive? Only pray by grace, for this empty plate There still may be a place Set at the table of my Heavenly Host. 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) Related work on Foreshadow: The Parable of the Talents (Poetry by Bill Ayres, April 2022) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Linda McCullough Moore People are forever saying, Can I read you my poem? and I say No, my oven’s broken and I have a cold casserole I have to find a fire to heat so I can feed a small village else they starve before night blackens the jungle round them, plus my leg is cramping probably thrombosing, and the phone is ringing with a call I’ve been expecting my whole life. But I wish I could, I like poems (one lie more). I mean to do acts of kindness every day. And I would if the people in my life would stop trying to read their poetry to me. 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
Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Ron Hickerson I've never had career aspirations – I've just never thought about it. I don't remember having an answer when adults asked me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Careers are tricky things that can swallow you up if you're not careful, like a sand trap I'd rather steer clear of instead of trying to navigate slowly, like the sandwalkers of Arrakis. The closest I came was the adolescence I courted becoming a minister. Singing songs of how I belong to a generation that seeks God’s face, I pictured excitement and adventure at every corner, bringing about the kingdom of heaven – instead, burnout answered the call. Now, I shrug my shoulders when people ask about my dream job – if such a thing exists. Sure, as much as I wish I could work in the factory for 50 years, get my gold watch, and retire, I don't think Irenaeus would be impressed much. But a few nights ago, I made spaghetti for a small gathering of friends who came to my house for refuge and rest, and we shared noodles, sauce, life, and laughter as we broke garlic bread and munched biscotti. It made my soul sing, "This is what life is for!" My greatest work is prepping for the feast to come. Practicing eternity in smiles and crow's feet. Such duties are for an economy that transcends empire, paychecks, vacation days, and health insurance. The clock winds down toward punch-in time. Ron Hickerson helps college students navigate the murky waters of academia. When he's not advising, you can find him wandering the campus, looking for the oldest trees or writing at his desk. His work has been published in the Clayjar Review.
Ron's other work on Foreshadow: Resistance (Poetry, October 2022) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Anthony S. Zimmer Maybe that job is a sacrament by which we are becoming Christian. Maybe it is saving us. We dreamt of achieving a vocation – and we worked hard for it! I remember the diligence, the faithfulness. But we live east of Eden. We strove to flourish, to “bloom where you are planted”, but the ground was cursed, and our souls withered on the vine, replaced by thorns and thistles. Those failures – the pain, the anger, the frustration, the despair – exposed our hearts to ourselves. And what is sanctification but first the revealing of our hearts? And what is sanctification but second the giving and receiving of grace? Maybe that job, like baptism, is a plunge into dying and a grace unto living. Can our half-saved hearts trust us with the jobs we want? Might it not root our hearts deeper into the soil of a corrupted kingdom? Might not Money/Pride/Power, its accumulation and storage, accumulate and store us? Might we become too sated by this fallen kingdom and forget how to criticize it, forget how to mourn? We forget that our first vocation, our first divine calling, is to pick up our cross and follow Christ. Do and be. Leave will do and will be to the vagaries of humanity and the constancy of grace. Anthony S. Zimmer has served in a variety of pastoral roles in America and South Africa. Bi-vocational, he lives and works at the nexus of business, missions, local ministry and theology. He holds a bachelor’s in Bible and Theology, an MBA, and is working towards an MA in Biblical Interpretation.
Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Abigail Leigh Beneath the sun’s falter-less eye And migrating bird’s breast, I Wander the home of the lily bud—the verdant soil, My foot-bellies dressed in mud. For what reason do I toil? Beneath descendant rain-beams, bent Blossoms smile—patient The fanned fowl feeds, peacefully In still-shaded streams While wild things rest, sowing not. And yet for my needs, Do I take thought? Beneath mountain obliques, peaked Tale-telling timbers, undressing, creak, Speak as if to say—shhh! Steadily, hear leaf-lulled lullabies sing Over seasons, our ushers, their breeze Bringing blush: Do you not believe winter turns to spring? More breath I do not reap, nor moments do I keep Spinning after wind-blown cloth, collecting rusty moths Untaxed is nature (the bird, the fish), Yet all is accomplished. Souls who thirst, seek—His Kingdom first. 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) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Ron Hickerson Lately, I've resisted going outside. It must be my bad chemicals. When my Brain ceases to produce or process its Feel-good juices, I stop wanting to do The things that give me life and hide behind My excuses and self-condemnation instead. Let's go for a walk. It's too hot outside. Have you drunk water? I’d rather lie down. Have you eaten? Everything sounds so gross. Have you made any art? What is the point? The point is this: a greater force acts on Me, an object at rest, and I walk in The woods with my girls and explore the creek Behind our house. We wade in the water Until we're soaked and laugh as we splash and Squelch in our rubber shoes. I look up at The trees rippling with light from the creek Reflecting sunlight. And the trees can't get Enough of it –- drunk on water and sun. And I can't get enough of it, either. Ron Hickerson helps college students navigate the murky waters of academia. When he's not advising, you can find him wandering the campus, looking for the oldest trees or writing at his desk. His work has been published in the Clayjar Review.
Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Roger B. Away in the hills, one should always take care. On a Swiss mountain holiday, arranged with a friend, One never knows whom one might meet while there Or what such a trip could lead to in the end. The usual excursions will do for a start: The Jungfraujoch Railway and Kandersteg, too. She hears about a walk and wants to take part. The tour rep agrees and explains what to do. On a two-seater chairlift heading up for this walk, They’re hanging in space as it stalls for a while. Once they’ve viewed all the mountains, they then have to talk. He seems not too bad, so she gives him a smile. So three years later, they’re in Austria in June, Away in the hills for their honeymoon. Roger B. writes and lives in Cumbria, England.
Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Michael Lyle lubricates latch and limb slathers lovelorn souls like a hungry child buttering bread. Newly lifted noses drip rose petals on awestruck chins inhaling summer sky like pure oxygen as brightness spreads within the way a newborn weans the world. 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) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Michael Lyle She was my first visit in the new parish because you both like tennis, but in the wheelchair inflicted by MS prim and pretty her welcoming smile was bright as a father’s at his daughter’s wedding trophy wall behind volleying light over-powering acceptance the sport we shared an uncrossable net between us serving aces of despair that disavowed my parting prayer. 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) Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. |
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