d. ellis phelps, managing editor
Svetlana Nitvinchuk, associate editor
Sandi Stromberg, associate editor
Ripening arrives to those who consciously breathe / into the well of their confusion and grief, / They shall feel themselves surfacing again with clarity and joy.
Neil Douglas-Klotz (transliteration of Matthew 5:4 from the Aramaic)
Date Night
~Lynne Burnett
Often my husband and I meet for dinner at a busy restaurant.
I’ll ride the bus so we can drive home together in his truck.
Whoever’s there first grabs a couple of seats at the bar,
orders two glasses of Malbec, sips one and waits.
I like to think that’s how it’ll be in the afterlife—
one a little behind the other, the door opening
into the hum of an obviously popular place.
Zigzagging through the crowd—that glad spark
of recognition, both of us brimming with news.
“Date Night” first appeared in Irresistible, Lynne Burnett
My Secret
~Susan Donnelly
Dandelions don’t know
I am their cousin,
another weed able to thrive
in concrete’s cracks;
a golden blossom
opening with the sun
and dancing beyond
the edges of propriety.
Sacred Space
~Jennifer Lagier
Volunteer calla lilies
interrupt bursting cat tails,
stretch beyond budding willows
gather spring equinox sunshine.
Laguna Grande pond
showcases a braying aquacade
of floating Canada geese,
a minnow-spearing blue heron.
Mud ducks and their fluffy progeny
parade along rutted trail
as I commune with wetland spirits,
respect sacred space of my feathery brethren.
Rejoicing in ordinary things is not sentimental or trite. It actually takes guts. Each time we drop our complaints and allow everyday good fortune to inspire us, we enter the warrior’s world.”
~Pema Chodron
Thanks to Eremos Contemplative Center for the Chodron quote.
Glory Be…
~Stephanie L. Harper
to my husband’s exquisite
nipples—a cactus-hen’s chicks
snug in black silk vortices—
two galactic fornices
abloom in silver spacetime,
cresting, ruddy, from the rime.
Glory be to his two, cute
accretion discs—each hirsute
sentry perched in its crow’s nest,
a bold basilisk, abreast
of his heartbeats’ whole ocean—
keeping the time dilation
lanterns burning damask-rose:
Leading where? Oh! Glory knows...
My Shadow, the Imposter
~James Dennis
Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is. At all counts, it forms an unconscious snag, thwarting our most well-meant intentions.
—Carl Jung
I seem to have misplaced my shadow,
or it has been stolen by some thief.
The one that I’m currently leaving behind
is not mine. At least, that’s my belief.
And I’m almost certain of it.
As I walk along, I can tell
the shape isn’t quite right.
This nose looks different, and this shadow
seems less honest, somehow less forthright.
No, I’m sure now. This shadow is a counterfeit.
Someone must have taken mine at night
in the darkness, when I was unaware.
My old shadow had very fine manners,
this one seems less debonair.
And I can’t go to the authorities without more proof.
But my shadow, I mean my original shadow,
was darker, and somehow more substantial.
I cannot report this imposter: some gifted villain
has obscured the evidence, which is purely circumstantial.
This clever copy is not my shadow, and that is the truth.
I hope someday I’ll meet my shadow again,
perhaps we’ll see each other by chance,
at a bar in Mozambique, or on a busy Manhattan street,
or on a sunny beach, or at a lecture on modern dance.
Our reunion needn’t be public; I could be discreet.
If I saw my true shadow again, we would know
one another right away; we’ve been together a long time.
And I’d ask my shadow to come back home, perhaps
not right that moment—he could return anytime.
Without him, part of me is missing, and all of me is incomplete.
“My Shadow, the Imposter” first appeared in Songs of Seven Days, James R. Dennis, 2024
Life Lessons from Supermarkets
~Spirit Thom
I get to drive the differently-abled shopping cart:
battery powered-so slow as snail's silver trails
up and down the H.E.B aisles-lost in the SPECIALS
and the not-so-specials...Finally, only when the battery glows FLAT
do I realise a very basic life lesson -for, even as in technology
as in life-ONE CAN NOT GO BACK...There is no RE-VERSING.
Words have power, enchantment and are uniquely lodged in the rock of each moment
Like crystals and geodes , these life lessons GLOW
I am stuck on the Island of H.E.B, in the aisles of Gourmandising
SO I SING!
Opossum
~Julie Martin
I peer into morning’s blackness as my breath
fogs the windowpane adding a halo
to the glow of the street lamp.
Overnight, snowfall has covered everything
in undisturbed brilliance. The velvet brown
branches of the sumac are laced in whiteness.
Streets, sidewalks, rooftops dazzle
with the purity of a holy winter night. Inside,
on the verge of attending to the mundane:
feeding the dogs, making coffee,
preparing for the work day,
I almost miss the constellation
of tiny, star-shaped footprints
advancing across the front steps,
tail mark dragging behind
trailing winter magic in its wake.
Deliverance
~Jean Ryan
I'm pretty good at ignoring things:
dust under the bed, weeds in the lawn,
the neighbor's Trump flags,
but not the small green frog
in the grocery store today,
springing down the toilet paper aisle
with what looked like purpose,
as if it had a future in that desolation
of cold linoleum.
A whole life tucked in a rubber suit.
I could either save it
or see it hopping down that floor
for the rest of my days.
Again and again, panic sent its body
up and over my hands. I needed tools,
something to thwart those frenzied legs,
and there in the next aisle I found them,
two handy display cartons from which
I dumped the candy, then used to corral
the frantic jumper and scoop it from oblivion.
No one stopped me as I rushed the frog
through the store in a Jolly Rancher transport
en route to the shrubs outside.
The staff must have felt my urgency
and knew to stay clear, like cars
pulling over for an ambulance.
Crazy for My River, Crazy for Her
~Ken Gierke
Jonesing for those two
great lakes, Erie and Ontario,
with the lifeblood that flows
between them, I quench my thirst
at the mouth of the Niagara,
let lakeshore waves wash
over my feet as water runs
through my hands to reveal
beach glass bluer than those waves.
Now south, along the river
to walk beside its shore,
watch the wind bend cattails
over more blue water and raise
kites high overhead. The rhythm
of bass and drums leaves me
wanting to be nowhere else.
No levee here, but I can hear
Robbie Robertson, a lazy beat
behind him. This river may not
fog my mind, but it does stir my soul,
waves of emotion washing over me.
Further south to the waterfront,
Buffalo skyline behind me
and more blue water before me,
as I watch monarchs make
a brief stop on Lake Erie’s shore
before heading further south,
my own path taking me past Erie
and away from all that blue water.
My destination is nowhere near
the Big Easy, yet it’s far enough
south to wrap me at times
with its smothering heat.
She knows I can’t say the wind
pushed me this way, when
my need to be with her pulled me.
I’ll always return to her,
my clear destination, never
a wish to abandon her, even
as my imagination takes me
back to that blue water,
where time seems to stand still.
Now, you might think I’m crazy,
but I’m crazy for both of them.
They leave me spellbound.
For what is flesh, but light enthroned.
And what is light, but love called home.~Maria Illich
Luminous Dust
~Maria Illich
Next door, Ray’s bloodhound bays at the moon;
Something rattles loose in my soul;
Shakes free; dodges drudgery.
I leave dishes in the sink; towels on the floor.
And I, heart gamboling like a giddy foal,
I rush out the back door
Into the lap of early June
Where the earth’s sweet thrumming stirs
A latent tempo in my blood;
The hell of expectations slips like a shell
From my back; my pace slackens; my breath shudders
And slows. Then comes the flood
Of surrender, trustworthy rudder
Of a vessel the wise pilgrim prefers,
For what is flesh, but light enthroned.
And what is light, but love called home.