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Minnesota was a cold place to be born. My August arrival was a reprieve from winter’s fingers. I was aligned with flat land that kicked up trees too tall to climb. An Indian led me to the Lamb of God, I quaked, shook and shivered as I walked the aisle. He was Lakota, wore a blue suit and tie. I was tiny for a sinner, but I knew my need for redemption. He tied me to the Lamb and I thought—must I feed it or kill it? He gave no answer, just a smile.
The blonde girl sat in the one short tree that we had. I stood to the side and watched her, confused and mystified. Her body, the long thin legs beneath her jeans were cradled by the tree; it was all too much. Then I explored death’s thick grip—all is loss. The dogs will only cause tears; bullets and school buses took them away, I will spare you the howls of imagined wolves, lupine trickery it was and I took it all in my fear-mounted hands and learned how small I was. In those years in California, shame became a well-tailored suit. A perfect fit and no frayed hems. I wore it until it was too small. Dirt, the small house, Goodwill clothes, old car and shoes with holes all were soiled disappointments. I was soiled too and there were always more suits to wear. The test said, “a genius.” It was dangerous to have that high a number--it felt like power. “A genius” it said. The orange blossoms grew amidst that battlefield, where boys threw their juice-filled grenades, made killing noises and won no battles. The war was far away, we knew no better. Unfazed, we took our bikes home—it was dinnertime. The story ends with broken pieces; I threw them in a yellow bucket along with the burned and rusted bike and the house’s ashes. I set them aflame. -- Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller with degrees in philosophy and theological studies. He lives in West Michigan with his wife and their three Golden Retrievers. He has published his work in a number of journals, among them: Ekstasis, Fare Forward (forthcoming), The Clayjar Review, Ravens Perch, and Amethyst.
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Such grotesque
grinding graces, surreal decades lost in the cosmos, suffered endurance impatient pain terminally unique facing despairing, the hidden God treading me up in fiery waters as I flailed down into the dark, brutal graces as I died a million times before breathing became intimations & labored epiphanies, absurd cryptic graces buoyant & persevering every time I drowned & washed-up gratefully alive on another beach. -- Alan Altany has BA & MA degrees in Catholic theology, and a Ph. D. in religious studies (University of Pittsburgh). He is a semi-retired, septuagenarian professor of Comparative Religions at a small college in Florida, USA. He founded and edited a small magazine of poetry (The Beggar’s Bowl) and has published three books of poetry for in series, “Christian Poetry of the Sacred”: A Beautiful Absurdity (2022), The Greatest Longing (2023), and Intimations (2024). His poetry has been published by Tipton Poetry Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Valley Voices, Sand Hill Literary Magazine, The Hong Kong Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Montreal Review, St. Austin Review, and others. Website: https://www.alanaltany.com/. Your ancient Doctor of Grace
raised from his dead heresy prayed “Lord, you have made us for yourself…,” longing & aching awfully for You, holding breath underwater in tidal floods of distractions from Your overwhelming brutal beauty buried within like a red lotus blooming & rooting in our restless hearts palpitating in waves of undying soulful thirst for spontaneous union with You, for breathing down-deeply underwater as sacred-hearted fish riding the currents home, a mysterious inertia drawing us through our eternal ecstatic addiction to You, finally at rest forever in Your absurdly infinite & intimate love, a mothering intensity. -- Alan Altany has BA & MA degrees in Catholic theology, and a Ph. D. in religious studies (University of Pittsburgh). He is a semi-retired, septuagenarian professor of Comparative Religions at a small college in Florida, USA. He founded and edited a small magazine of poetry (The Beggar’s Bowl) and has published three books of poetry for in series, “Christian Poetry of the Sacred”: A Beautiful Absurdity (2022), The Greatest Longing (2023), and Intimations (2024). His poetry has been published by Tipton Poetry Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Valley Voices, Sand Hill Literary Magazine, The Hong Kong Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Montreal Review, St. Austin Review, and others. Website: https://www.alanaltany.com/. the zen of old age
elegant minimalism focal point of beauty soul-time simplicity clarity with purpose permeating presence beyond all distractions avowing all pretense & frivolous egomania reduction of regrets with deep gratitude gone a flashing glitz ordinary epiphanies daily seeds of bliss addictions deleted pervasive prayer & some new wisdom among old scars a spirited sensing of sacred in common hiding nothing more from God’s waiting for hearty striptease of all possessiveness & boring posturing mysticism of old age as plain as readiness to love & sing songs momentary meditation on truthful emptiness no fearing of death no deadening of life -- Alan Altany has BA & MA degrees in Catholic theology, and a Ph. D. in religious studies (University of Pittsburgh). He is a semi-retired, septuagenarian professor of Comparative Religions at a small college in Florida, USA. He founded and edited a small magazine of poetry (The Beggar’s Bowl) and has published three books of poetry for in series, “Christian Poetry of the Sacred”: A Beautiful Absurdity (2022), The Greatest Longing (2023), and Intimations (2024). His poetry has been published by Tipton Poetry Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Valley Voices, Sand Hill Literary Magazine, The Hong Kong Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Montreal Review, St. Austin Review, and others. Website: https://www.alanaltany.com/. Such bizarre beauty
an impossible freedom rising from old ruins reaching elastic skies eclipsing darkest night, a prolonged pilgrimage towards silence of love & the beckoning God one drama at a time letting go of gravity to glide with pelicans above oceanic memories from old suffered days when nothing mattered of brute slavish despair, dawns by the thousands diving down into shadows finding common miracles going step by stepping through debris & delights now marking 50 years of a sober & clean soul one moment at a time, a ridiculous story in telling too mysterious to fathom too good not to be true always beginning wisdom raised beyond imagination. -- Alan Altany has BA & MA degrees in Catholic theology, and a Ph. D. in religious studies (University of Pittsburgh). He is a semi-retired, septuagenarian professor of Comparative Religions at a small college in Florida, USA. He founded and edited a small magazine of poetry (The Beggar’s Bowl) and has published three books of poetry for in series, “Christian Poetry of the Sacred”: A Beautiful Absurdity (2022), The Greatest Longing (2023), and Intimations (2024). His poetry has been published by Tipton Poetry Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Valley Voices, Sand Hill Literary Magazine, The Hong Kong Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Montreal Review, St. Austin Review, and others. Website: https://www.alanaltany.com/. 50 years ago on April 5th,
half century as vultures fly, I began a long, dramatic and trembling entrance as scared & doubting outlier to the formidable horizon of brutal, desperate sobriety, the evasive & elusive sacred sobriety rumored to exist now possibly here at hand through rigors of a passing from captivity to first light. 50 years of swerving & battered, but breathing, sobriety against any odds, 50 strange, gracious years of facing fiery dragons & living between fear & love, 50 revolving years facing absurdity & beauty circling God & His ecstatic sobriety. -- Alan Altany has BA & MA degrees in Catholic theology, and a Ph. D. in religious studies (University of Pittsburgh). He is a semi-retired, septuagenarian professor of Comparative Religions at a small college in Florida, USA. He founded and edited a small magazine of poetry (The Beggar’s Bowl) and has published three books of poetry for in series, “Christian Poetry of the Sacred”: A Beautiful Absurdity (2022), The Greatest Longing (2023), and Intimations (2024). His poetry has been published by Tipton Poetry Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Valley Voices, Sand Hill Literary Magazine, The Hong Kong Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Montreal Review, St. Austin Review, and others. Website: https://www.alanaltany.com/. Do you see a curious stone-gray bird
There in volcanic rivulets splashing With few a chattering or piping word When down he dives in clear torrent flashing? The sun’s joyful rippled reflections smile While the dipper bathes and picnics awhile. Bobbing and plunging in a country dance, Balancing, tilting on long legs yellow-gray, Set to moving water his varied stance, We long for wishful moments he might stay. But off he flies to some other pebbled stream And leaves you a fleeting afternoon’s dream. -- Gareth Oakes, a native of Minnesota, lives in Oregon. He is an MFA student. He sings atop a tree at close of day
Beguiling the sun to tarry, not to stay, Pleading him not to withdraw his light Until dusk has failed and gloom gloats with night. But with the bright season's returning strength Each morning nigh midsummer extends its length. Up he flits to a red cedar's steeple, A tenor's voice calling all good people To lift Te Deum in a warbled hymn For the Ancient of Days, the Maker, Him Who taught him the notes of the evensong And the matins chant, melodious and long. Cock your ear and at an angle prick it Before he retreats to a cloister thicket When mute winter dampens summer's chapel And ends trilled prayers after fall’s ripe apple. For a copper coin are two sparrows bought, But none shall fall apart from Him who wrought. While you may, heed the Sparrow's canticle; Hear it resound in every particle: To our Heavenly Father upward raise All due proper honor, glory, and praise. Come, all weary and broken-hearted, Kneel and confess before night has started. When on the field grass and buds is the dew, Carol thanksgivings, the Creator’s due. -- Gareth Oakes, a native of Minnesota, lives in Oregon. He is an MFA student. Choked on a crumbling dirt bank eroded
Where the soil spoiled roots with the corroded Acrid tang of weeping and haunting fears: Fields sown with the salt of sorrowful tears Made bitter through obdurate, haughty pride, Withered by a dry desert wind that sighed Over her wilting leaves and wrinkled bud. Growing out of leanness, longing for mud Soaked and caked about her stem to flourish With nearby water flowing to nourish, Moisten, and plump her tender wounded parts Torn and broken by those deceitful arts Which beguiled her to stray on wayward paths And caused her to be worthy of greater wraths. When the dews the hopeful renewal of spring Globed in droplets which about her would cling, Then her leaves greened full; her flower bloomed white With deep crimson blotches that stained to blight The pure face of ivory beauty fair When all should be cast off, ev’ry thought or care. The sky darkened with thunderheads frightful Promising condensed knowledge insightful, And when they broke, atonement downward showered Causing abundant grace to be what flowered Cleansing the bloody stains that dyed her petals, Trickling down stem to damp dust that settles. A trowel pierced the earth, pain cut her roots. Lifting her from that soil of ashy soots She clung to with musty deep-branching toes, A Grower gathered and sheltered her from woes, Potting and pruning, her growth to restore, Of merciful drizzles she’ll never lack more. For aside was she set for rows of plenty good Where other blossoms bloom near there she stood; The Planter’s appointed planting from all time An anointed tilling by choice sublime All plotted and ordered by His purpose set And confirmed at Passover with payment met; Of richer compost, the Lamb’s Blood, none has known For all that it nourishes none will disown. -- Gareth Oakes, a native of Minnesota, lives in Oregon. He is an MFA student. A hefty wren settles
on the tenderest branch of a sapling ginkgo. The bough bends, bounces, yet holds-- a bruised reed He will not break… Rosin-dusted strands press taut violin strings. The bow bends, wire writhes, Bach reborn-- a bruised reed He will not break… The sure God-beliefs of my childhood crack, crumble, lie smoldering in a doubt crucible, Till borne on a strange breath-wind, the ashes rise, swirl, a divine murmuration reformed-- a bruised reed He will not break… -- Dr. Kellie Brown is a violinist, conductor, music educator, poet, 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 award. Her words have appeared in Earth & Altar, Ekstasis, Psaltery & Lyre, Foreshadow, Clayjar Review, and others. In addition to over 30 years of music ministry, she serves as a certified lay minister in the United Methodist Church. |
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