Linda M. Crate- Two Poems

Thank You

 

In a world full of sinners,

You survived without

blame, but were ridiculed

for saying You were some

one that you were not,

but you weren't lying - 

we were lying to You

and to ourselves to make

excuses for not doing the

things that we ought 

because being obedient

is often inconvenient and

not what we want to do.

our true nature is to give

into the darkness within,

and without a true guide

to help us through we

would all walk straight

into the gates of hell

after death if it weren't

for Your forgiveness for

people who hated you,

for people like me, that 

didn't deserve Your love

or Your gentleness or 

Your self-control or 

anything else you have

given us, for the list is

far too long to list yet

You gave us free choice

so we could choose You,

and that just blows my

mind because so many

people choose to live

without You because You

didn't make us robots, but

You offered us a choice -

a decision to follow or

to follow our own desires

which often gets us into

trouble because You know

what's best for us even

if we don't want to hear it.

so thank You for every

thing You've done in my

life and for the lives of 

all my sisters and brothers

in Your name because

You've done things that

are behind my vision and

my sight and my knowledge.

You truly are an awesome

God, and I thank You for

everything i am or will be.

another praise

 

so many songs and poems

have been constructed in

Your name, and here's another

to add to the constant list

that is growing and growing.

Maker of the stars and sky,

of the land and universe,

Maker of the oceans and

of my family and my heart -

my words could never be

enough, but i lift my praise

to you with a heart full of 

gratitude because i don't 

deserve all the blessings 

you've bestowed upon me,

but you continue to look

after me like You do the lilies

and the sparrows and the

trees that grow all around me.

no one can compare to Your

greatness, so i raise this praise

to you whether it be read or

sung because You are the great

I am, it is only through You that

i will every achieve the greatest

things in my life and they will

never compare to You or what

You did and do for Your people.

You sharpen me with Your

words not to hurt me, but to

help me because some of the

things that i crave do me more

harm than the good i anticipate

that they'll be worth or achieve.

so i pray you take this humble

praise and it warms Your heart

because you've taken a girl 

full of anger and hatred and

turned her into a peaceful

being that wants and yearns

to be a healer among the broken

and it's a transformation that i 

see in me every day by Your

hand, and i thank You that 

you should care so much for

a sinner just like me, dear God.

Thank you for caring about me.

Rick Hartwell- Three Poems

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember, the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing poetry, Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon.

Grace

Geckoes and a jackrabbit greeted her
on the way to church today,
as I dropped my daughter off
to study God and learn to pray.

Many more parishioners were there,
but only these had stopped to stay
within the Sun’s encircling warmth,
without the wooden cave to play.

I wonder if “The good Lord’s grace”
is just another way to say
“’Tis by fate and not by choice we live”?
Yet here my thoughts begin to stray.

Oversights like these have been
circling to all circumstance,
bent by recognizing chance in choice
and not to see the choice of chance.

Learning the Lesson

Sliding downward from Monday,
climbing back out on Sunday,
beating on the door of the
Home Ministry of Truth.

No entrance, but also no exit,
no excuses; just no place to go;
waiting for someone to call
my game on account of pain.

I am the classroom of my
own daily experiences;
my life is the lesson for
those surrounding me.

You must be the teacher.

Think About It!

Oh

Here I am

Again outside

In the hall of my life

Sent to “think things over”

Unable to withhold myself

Something I said

Returned me

Here again

Well!

Richard King Perkins II- A Poem

The Gift of Water

 

You crawl out of the desert,

shadowed by a contrail of opportunists

which takes on the shape of an irregular claw.

 

Hands burning and the rasping of your knees on sand;

how the particles cut into your skin,

embedding themselves permanently.

 

But even as you look ahead to a small diner at the desert’s edge,

the shadow clings to you, still hungry.

 

Arriving at the doorway,

the shadow follows you in, blindfolds you,

pours more grain into your wounds.

 

Get on your knees, clasp your hands, bow your head.

 

Your knees absorb the desert; heat subsides in your palms;

a crown of vultures encircles your head

and the diner offers only one special:

 

A splash of water for

all eternity.

 

 

 

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He has a wife, Vickie and a daughter, Sage. His work has appeared in hundreds of publications including Prime Mincer, Sheepshead Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Fox Cry, Calvary Cross and The Red Cedar Review. He has poetry forthcoming in The Meadow, Bluestem and The William and Mary Review.

 

Tendai Mwanake- A Poem

HOME AGAIN

 

He thought he had taken everything

Maybe he didn’t have to think about it

Maybe he really had to leave me

I thought he took away a part of me

I told myself he left with something, mine

But I couldn’t ask him not to

 

He left me an empty blue sky

Dry air is all I could feel inside me

I felt open, like an open sky

The sun mercilessly pouring hot

No clouds, no air, no breeze

I felt my insides drying, dying

Into a dead, dried, listless bird

 

He took a side path and left me alone

He left me alone in the lonely road

As I approached the intersection

He left me to die on the cusps of

Something life changing, life taking

He took something that is life giving

 

It took me years to find out

I had to die inside for me to find

That he hadn’t taken anything

That I still had everything inside me

I had to face another loss

My mother dying of Alzheimer

Made me realise what loss really meant

 

Those bouts of forgetfulness of

My mother’s. That she could

Forget me. That she could even

Forget who she was. Where she was

That her death didn’t represent loss

For she had nothing more to lose

 

Made me realise that I hadn’t lost

Anything, me or even him. That he

Was the one who had lost me

To find myself again on the road of life

That he had abandoned me in

For me to find myself again

To find my way home again.

 

 

 

Bio-

Voices from exile, a collection of poetry on Zimbabwe’s political situation and exile in South Africa was published by Lapwing publications, Northern Ireland in 2010. KEYS IN THE RIVER: Notes from a Modern Chimurenga, a novel of interlinked stories that deals with life in modern Zimbabwe was published by Savant books and publications, USA in 2012. Revolution, Logbook written by a drifter, and Voices from exile were both short listed by the Erbecce press poetry prize in 2012, 2011, and 2009 respectively, nominated for the Pushcart twice, 2008, 2010, commended for the Dalro prize 2008, nominated and attended Caine African writing workshop 2012. Published over 200 pieces of short stories, essays, memoirs, poems and visual art in over 100 magazines, journals, and anthologies in the following countries, the USA, UK, Canada, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, India, Kenya, Uganda, Ghana, Romania, Mexico, Cameroon, Italy, France, Spain, Cyprus, Australia and New Zealand.

 

Mark Nenadov- A Poem

Winter Time

Snow sent here
    from the loving Lord above
is cascading
through the corners
of this sphere
where the cold tickles
the feet of the earth.

Our tribe draws near
to the flickering
    fire—fearfully made
which sends smoke
snaking through the chimney
    up
    up
    up to the shimmering stars.



Bio: Mark Nenadov lives in Essex, Ontario, Canada with his lovely wife and their baby daughter. Mark's poems have appeared in publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, WestWard Quarterly, Northern Cardinal Review, Northern Michigan University's The Lightkeeper, and Shot Glass Journal. See http://www.marknenadov.com for more details.

Aaron Combs- A Poem

The War of Grace

I pray against this sound.

The sound of tears, the sound of pain,
like trees that fall in the desert.
I pray against this sound.
The sound of destruction, and plague
like insects clawing on your soul.
I pray against this sound.
The screaming nails, the unforgiveness.
I pray against this sound.

I pray for grace.

I put my hope in the rivers of love.
I put my trust in the peace of understanding,
   that He is sovereign.
It is enough to know He is there.
And the silence isn't so loud anymore.

When I'm broken, feeling untied, tethered,
like a ball under the rye,
as lips begin to close, and hope begins to lean,
I look to the hills

      and know

                     that He is still there.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Lifts Her Like A Chalice

 

The weekday Mass at 6 a.m.

brings the old folks out 

from bungalows 

around the church.

They move like caterpillars  

down sidewalks, 

some with canes, 

some on walkers. 

Father Doyle says the Mass 

and then goes back to the rectory 

to care for his mother 

who cannot move or speak 

because of a stroke.

And every Sunday at noon 

when the church is full, 

Father Doyle, in full vestments, 

wheels his mother

in a lump

down the middle aisle

and lifts her like a chalice 

and places her in the front pew  

before he ascends to the altar.

Sometimes at night,

when his mother's asleep, 

Father Doyle comes back to the Church 

and rehearses in the dark 

three hymns she long ago 

asked him to sing at her funeral.

He practices the hymns 

because the doctor said  

she could go at any time.

When that time comes,

he doesn't want to miss a note.

The last thing she ever said was 

"Son, I'll be listening."

Anthony Nannetti- A Poem

My Mother's Rosary

I dreamed that you were still young

and seeking Mary's intercession,

with unclouded eyes lowered

on fleet fingers that moved as if shelling beans.

And how eager I was to follow your lead,

to echo the decades so dutifully

as answer to our prayers.

Anthony Nannetti's poetry has appeared in several print and online publications.  He lives in South Philadelphia with his wife and two daughters.