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By L.M. Shearer He stretched out his hands to receive the whole world And everything met at the point of his suffering And everything was in him and by him and through him There hung the world’s light on the brink of extinction Pushed to the edge of exhaustion The sun shrank in despair at the light leaving In truth the whole world in his anguish trembled As once the young world unshapen Waited in dark for the word spoken Now in the dark again, the voice shaking Now in the darkened room a veil tearing Women and men raised their eyes weeping He stretched out his hands to receive the wide firmament Heaven and earth met where his side was bleeding The only divide was the wound gaping. L.M. Shearer is a high school and Sunday school teacher from the beautiful Pacific Northwest, USA. She volunteers as a Court Appointed Special Advocate, studies theology in her spare time and has occasionally written poems on post-it notes at work.
Shearer's other work on Foreshadow: The Revelation of John (Poetry, October 2024)
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By R. M. Francis Saint Anthony ushers us through morning mists into lustre, set against pale stone Worcester. He beckons us up creaking stairs away from the lethe - up to second story windows easing into thirteenth century ledges to spy Benedictine spectres, stoic, refined, sowing. Toil’s unbroken rhizomes call, like Evelyn’s church toll called - Order. Spanning centuries. Order. Anthony, who sought things that were lost in Pinfold state, claims two boys lost in ivy-drenched gardens, picking at Petty Spurge for petri dishes, In dérive with rows of Jesuits’ Bark, Bishop’s Weed. Anthony aids penicillin boys to stress covens of fungus. Order. Spanning centuries. Order. We possess nothing certainly except the past. R. M. Francis is Senior Lecturer and Course Leader in Creative and Professional Writing at the University of Wolverhampton. He's the author of two novels, Bella and The Wrenna, published with Wild Pressed Books, and a poetry collection, Subsidence, with Smokestack Books. In 2019 he was the inaugural David Bradshaw Writer in Residence at the University of Oxford and in 2020 was Poet in Residence for The Black Country Geological Society. In 2023 Poe Girl Publishing produced his collection of horror stories, Ameles / Currents of Unmindfulness. His academic research focuses on place-identity in the Black Country and has been published in a number of edited collections; he co-edited the book, Smell, Memory and Literature in the Black Country (Palgrave McMillan) with Professor Sebastian Groes.
Francis' other work on Foreshadow: Man of Sorrows (Poetry, October 2024) Prayerfully (Poetry, October 2024) By Desi Ana Sartini I. “Fresh clay, my Son. Take it in hand. Shaped, let it be the crown, the image-bearer.” And so the Hands that shaped the new-formed world reach down once more for final touch. Once, Spirit hovered, then Voice summoned, now dirt-filled Fingers grip the earth, pushing, pressing, rubbing-- sculpting limbs, digits, lobes and lashes, every curve, joint, sinew, and pore with attention and delight. Smoothing all to perfection, He smiles. “It is very good!” And They kneel, all Three, beside this one. Spirit bends low, breathes life into clay, as They take up the coronation song. II. “Come awake, My child! Look up and see your Father’s eyes! Breathe deep; take My breath as your own.” “Child of Our delight, bearer of Our image, crown of Our creation, welcome to the world of life!” “Arise, My beloved! Take My hand and dance with Me! Know My joy; take delight in My love.” “Sharer in Our joy, rester in Our peace, partaker in Our love, welcome to the life of fellowship with Us!” “Drink it in, beloved child! Tingle with My gift of life! Soak in Our light; let your face shine in glory.” “Receiver of Our grace, steward of Our rule, blessed beyond compare, welcome to your place beside the glorious I Am!” III. Thus we wake to the sparkle of Your eyes, the radiance of Your face, the breath of Your song. You hold our gaze as we lay breathing, feeling, testing fingers and toes, taking in what it means to be, Yours. We rise with awkward motion to the invitation of Your song and outstretched hand. No sooner have we found our feet than You sweep us through the garden, weaving among the trees, our eyes transfixed by Yours. Until at last our soul pours forth in laughter and we tumble onto new-sprung grass. Catching our breath, we bask in the glory of Your presence, Light of the world. IV. Time passes by unconcerned until at last, soaked to the bone with the peace of Your presence, we rise again. “Come, explore the garden. See the delights I give to you, yours to name and tend and guard.” So we walk, hand-in-Hand. Every step a thousand treasures: dragonflies and cherry blossoms, angelfish and tanagers, pine cones and raspberries, tree frogs and pumpkins. Each with its own form, motion, aroma, tune, and hue, joined in the great dance of worship. We savor each new fruit exclaiming at taste and texture, until neither tongue nor belly can take another. Then we sit content to watch awhile-- The playful birds. The drifting clouds. The swaying trees. The flowing water. Our hearts join in their dance. V. At last You bid us follow to the very center. quiet still timeless Your voice grows solemn in that sacred space. “Behold the goodness and magnificence of the two Great Trees! “One We share with you: The Tree of Life. By its fruit you will live eternally. “The other We withhold: The Tree of Moral Judgment. Seize it for yourself, and it will bring you certain death. “Trust this Tree to me, and obey My word. Then you will live in goodness always.” We bow before Your wisdom Your goodness, Your love. Then You lead us out to lie down and rest, complete, whole, full as the sky blazes to life with pink and orange flames, the sixth setting of the sun. And glory passes to glory with the rising splendor of the stars. Desi Ana Sartini writes from SE Asia, where she has immersed herself in language. She studies Malay literature by day, Hebrew poetry by night and cake-making on the weekends. You can read more of her work at www.breathanddust.com.
Desi's other work on Foreshadow: Defiant Hope (Fiction, October 2024) By Nadine Ellsworth-Moran We move into reclining butterfly, hold, as fibers lengthen, blood travels through unlocked joints. My yoga instructor says emotions are held in the hips, perhaps she means sockets, but I think you abide in my bone. I close my eyes, hear singing bowls hum to themselves as I run my fingertips across my Iliac crest that rims the wing of ilium, feel you there, engraved tenderness, our words whispered & preserved— scrimshaw. Eve may have risen from rib, but I rose from the hard slope that protects what is vital, sacred. Starry sentiment does not bind us, it is tendon and muscle--the iliopsoas taught with memory, too deep to see, too entwined to free—I rise and stretch my limbs. Nadine Ellsworth-Moran lives in Georgia where she serves full time in ministry. She has a passion for writing and is fascinated by the stories of the modern South unfolding all around her as she seeks to bring everyone into conversation at a common table. Her essays and poems have appeared in Rust+Moth, Calla Press, Theophron, Interpretation, Ekstasis, Thimble, The Windhover and Kakalak, among others. She shares her home with her husband and four unrepentant cats.
By David Athey Except when Mom handed us the phone (“say hi to Grandma”) our souls never felt called to be wired or digitized. The wild was unscreened, and free woods across the road was where our feet scrolled into words made vines and trees, the tallest was a fire- scorched pine named Ancient that counted our days in rays of light in the crown. And our faces were unknown to self- ies, the breeze giving sway, swaying to what felt like all the dangers of the sky dancing with all the real drop-dead gorgeous heavens. David Athey’s poems, stories, essays, and reviews have appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Christianity & Literature, Iowa Review, Dappled Things, Berkeley Fiction Review, Windhover, Relief, Time of Singing, and Harvard Review. Athey lives in South Florida on a small lake with large iguanas. His books, including Art is for The Artist, are available at Amazon.
David's other work on Foreshadow: That Poet (Poetry, October 2024) By Paul Hughes Black smoke Clouds encircle A crowd of revellers Stood outside a church Hall, fumigating the wounds Of the past, cigarette ash falls to The earth, like the embers of the lost Souls who never made it back to the front Line of recovery, many men die before taking The first step towards the upper realms of paradise, To freedom from bondage of self, to pure white bliss, Blessed are the sick who surrender their lives over to Him Paul Hughes is an English poet. He found God in 2021 after he started to work the 12 steps of recovery in Alcoholics Anonymous and soon after returned to Church for the first time since his childhood, having wandered dangerously far away from God up until that point.
Paul's other work on Foreshadow: The Pregnant Seahorse (Poetry, October 2024) By Joy Axelson I fled majestic mansions filled with ceaseless splendor and cloaked myself in flesh, condensed, to be a baby, tender, a hated homeless exile – disregarded, outcast, wailing, waiting, wanting and assigned the lowest caste. Why should I sojourn, suffering, sweating in sand and heat? Should you not be bowing low to kiss my dusty feet? I’m ever vexed by phantom force, fixing feet to ground, compressed into time and space and to this body bound. The sun, whose orb I set alight, beats down, burning skin. Souls of stone betray me, charging me with sordid sins. Humans, inhumane to all, whom vilest things enchant; Though their lips spew lies, their every breath is mine to grant. Outraged at injustice, I fling tables far and wide for in His holy house, their weak consciences have died extorting the helpless, worshipping the gods of greed. My zeal for this sacred space my hungry anger feeds. East of Eden, now you stand, thick darkness spreads like plague. I see a hateful hand drifting o’er the earth I made, to capture those I prize, bringing spirits tainting blight. Demons know I’m Satan’s foe; they must admit my might. The Garden finds me sleepless, pondering my dreadful task. I know this is my mission, and suffering won’t last. Suspended grace, I'm lifted up – this my cross to bear; the fate of sinful man will fall upon me there. If you cut me, I now bleed, o wretched Adam’s seed. I know no other means in the universe to free the foulest of offenders who scorn our lavish love. As the only Path, I take this boiling cup of blood. Striking me with wood I formed, piercing flesh with nails, whips, this crude creature meant for boundless bliss and fellowship, tortures and torments me, flogging his Holy Maker. I sculpted you in love; you spit on your Creator. Though I trained your heart to beat, you earned what I endure. I feel compassion for your frame – this I can assure. The sky was pitch, the curtain rent – death had won it seemed. Soon, repenting, you’ll awaken from this wicked dream. You will be released; you’ll cross that river, peaceful, wide. Fretful fears will be eclipsed – with God you will abide. Your journey done, vict’ry won – in Zion, truly freed And forever cherished by the Highest God who chose to bleed. Joy Nevin Axelson earned a B.A. and an M.A. in French. She also attended Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. 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.
Joy's other work on Foreshadow: Sacred Gift (Poetry, January 2024) Wilderness Theophany (Poetry, October 2024) By R. M. Francis Oblique, delicate prayer. Wild, blind prayer -- spare space this week’s rosary. Sapphira says there’s a decade knotted around the noose for my sin. Skip Monday’s joyful mystery, skip Tuesday’s sorrow -- Mother knows we need your fumble-fingering through beads. Caress in private grace, like times spent on the side of the hill, hooked, shut and ascending. I’m still scaling, sanctity scarce, set with scars, sights on sainthood. Oblique, delicate prayer. Wild, blind prayer -- simple -- spare space this week’s rosary for my prey. I cannot utter yet, but I’ll think about it, from the perch, crouching over the side of almost sleep. R. M. Francis is Senior Lecturer and Course Leader in Creative and Professional Writing at the University of Wolverhampton. He's the author of two novels, Bella and The Wrenna, published with Wild Pressed Books, and a poetry collection, Subsidence, with Smokestack Books. In 2019 he was the inaugural David Bradshaw Writer in Residence at the University of Oxford and in 2020 was Poet in Residence for The Black Country Geological Society. In 2023 Poe Girl Publishing produced his collection of horror stories, Ameles / Currents of Unmindfulness. His academic research focuses on place-identity in the Black Country and has been published in a number of edited collections; he co-edited the book, Smell, Memory and Literature in the Black Country (Palgrave McMillan) with Professor Sebastian Groes.
Francis' other work on Foreshadow: Man of Sorrows (Poetry, October 2024) By L.M. Shearer The sun caught each fiber, sparkling clean curled wool, white as clouds, translucent as a drift of snow that covered everything, that forgave every imperfection in the landscape. The fire was hot, and it drew the eyes to it, blackened the sand beneath it, turned the skin red who came near it, to be warmed by it. The roar of the ocean was a heartbeat in the ears, was breath leaving the lungs, was a waterfall consuming every sound. Seven flaming stars spread like cards on a velvet table, strewn like seven bright diamonds on a jeweler’s bench. The sun bright in summer, and the body craved it, but the eyes could not look at it, highest and hottest summer sun, it left no shadows, no shade under it. John saw this, he saw all of it within one man, and in that sight lest he die, fell down before his feet as one already dead. And the Son-of-Man like-snow like-fire like-stars like-ocean like-burning-sun said “Fear not” L.M. Shearer is a high school and Sunday school teacher from the beautiful Pacific Northwest, USA. She volunteers as a Court Appointed Special Advocate, studies theology in her spare time and has occasionally written poems on post-it notes at work.
By David Athey Daniel loves to be alone with just enough people in a dark dive deep abode of light with windows facing most directions of soul, the door belled and chimed so no one arrives alone. That poet Daniel reclines near the piano, his notebook wild with dreams of grace and fury like a lion’s jaws, the jaws of many lions, all teeth and ink-blood purring. David Athey’s poems, stories, essays, and reviews have appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Christianity & Literature, Iowa Review, Dappled Things, Berkeley Fiction Review, Windhover, Relief, Time of Singing, and Harvard Review. Athey lives in South Florida on a small lake with large iguanas. His books, including Art is for The Artist, are available at Amazon.
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