Thursday, December 24, 2015

Ryan Pritt- A Poem

Ryan Pritt graduated with a degree in English/Creative Writing from West Virginia University in 2008. He has since gone on to become a sports writer at the Charleston Gazette-Mail, but in his free time still writes creatively as well.

Dig and arise
Back-breaking, pain-staking, earth-quaking digging
Through crust, mantle and deep into the core
Sweltering, bright heat meets frigid dark winds
The seasons pass by in the blink of an eye
And I dig on, no breaks, no rest, no relief
Shovel breaks stone, while head pummels wall
The blade of the tool eventually wins out
But my brain throbs with each futile thrust
‘X’ marked this spot in deep, blood red
A journey through earth, mind, heart and soul
But this hole towers above me so cavernous
So deep, so high, the mouth is no longer visible
Not that I’d take sight off of below as I tunnel on
Finally I strike something foreign as arms jerk to a halt
The chest is battered like me, crippled under the world’s weight
Treasure that I’ve so long desired lies vulnerable at my feet
I open the box, squinting in anticipation of
The glaring reflection of newly-struck gold
But this treasure is booby-trapped and explodes
Sending shockwaves up the freshly-formed walls
And boulders fall from all levels, landing with brute force
Against the sides of my already trembling frame
By the end I can reach just a hand out of the rubble
Extended skyward searching, yearning, grasping
New wounds are laid open as blood cascades downward
Wounds only time can render painless scars
Fingers stretch and clench, finding nothing expectantly
Yet suddenly, in the midst of my biggest failure
With eyes clouded by blood, blinded by pain
A memory overcomes me, leaving the pain forgotten
Words cut through the blindness and wrap me like a robe
They scream, echoing through the hole “Matthew 14:31!!!”
And the words immediately come to mind
"Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him.
‘You have so little faith,’ Jesus said. ‘Why do you doubt me?’ ”
And in the pits of a pit, in the bottom of the bottom
Soaked in blood, sweat, tears, bile and vomit
With bones protruding from skin and organs straining to work
I realize, I still cannot and still do not
And in that moment grasping fingers find others
That wrap with both the security of a vice
And the softness of a mother’s tender touch
The rock begins to move, exposing my crumbled body
Badly damaged and battered, yet alive all the same
And the ascension begins, flying upward past
The shovel strokes I’d nearly killed myself to create
Seemingly worthless but still lesson-teaching
For a hole dug by greed and by motives of self
Could never sustain against the winds of change
And for different reasons, I know it may not be
The last time I sit alone at the bottom of
A cavern carved by my own hands
But no chasm is so deep to be out of reach from above
And the light at the end of the tunnel never further away
Than the dark shadows that glimmering faith can penetrate
So this venture failed, these lessons learned
Have resulted in scars that may linger for a lifetime
But scars once proved the identity of a King
And one day they’ll remind me of the consequences of this plight
And I’ll show them off for the world to admire
Not for the way they were formed, but the way they healed
I can hear the wind whistling over the top
It sounds like the ocean breeze kissing the top of a bottle
A peaceful thought, the first in so agonizingly long
And deep inside I’m filled with knowing there’s more to come
Because of this hand I’m determined to never let go
For it reached for me when I was unreachable
And helped me learn what’s not teachable
So pull me up higher and I won’t look down or back
Til the gaping hole in the ground becomes a sidewalk crack
Far and abound and away from that place
My wounds and scars no match for the hand of grace

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

Love, Truth, and Beauty,
These three are one;
All things are of Love and for Love,
Truth is the revelation of Love.
Beauty surrounds us also,
In the seeking, the finding, and the joy of Love.

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

handing it all to You
suffering anxiety
isn't always
to remember, "fret not";
but when i hand
it all to You
find such profound peace and tranquility
that the world doesn't seem
such a paralyzing

a true friend 
when the world
is an ugly
and i want to curl
into a ball
cry until it all goes away;
and worries are
higher than the tops
of mountains
Your voice always assures
me that You're in control
You tell me to fret not—
when i give it all
up to You
it all melts away into the kiss
of oblivion
makes me remember
You're the only friend that's never
let me down.

You cast away anxiety 
when the noise of the world
trills in my ears
at such levels
i fear they'll explode
You take hold 
of my heart,
and You remind me to fret not;
there are so many things
You can do 
that i cannot and so i surrender
my fears and my anxieties
because You always
protect me
from the things that would harm me
even when the things that 
may harm me
come from my own negativity and doubt.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Ramona Thompson- A Poem

Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, Infernal Ink, Erotic Tales of The Paranormal, Howl and many more.

Fans/readers may reach her via facebook or her e-mail

The Reason For The Season

Let us never forget
The real why and how
The who of how all this
Came to be
Let us begin again
To remember
There would be no gifts
There would be no feast
Without him

Get right
Get holy
Turn from all this commercial
Glitz and bell ringing
And send your soul singing
His praises
His songs
To Him
First and foremost
Get on your knees
And give your thanks

You would have no beaufial tree
No friends or family
Nothing at all
If on that lonely cross
He had not given up his
So that you could have yours
Isn't it about time?
Your raised your hands and your eyes
To the sky

The need to believe
In something more than a fictional Santa Claus
It's so real
So high
Why don't you start the snowball rolling?
Shout out proud
Make it known
Clear and loud
He isn't just the myth
He's not only a simple man
He's everything
The reason for the season

2015 Ramona Thompson

Sunday, December 20, 2015

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

Gifts of Wonder

Found a butterfly wing
On my walk today.
Placed it in my left hand
And it blew away.

I saw a large owl
Fly across a field of hay.
I knew the sound of silence
In a different way.

I watched wheat dancing
In the evening wind.
It seemed a moment of beauty
That would never end.

I saw the sunlight shine
Upon a drop of dew.
Beheld a jewel of beauty
That's esteemed by few.

I saw a streak of light
In a night time sky,
And the universe changed
Before my eyes.

I heard a word of truth
In a quiet room,
And it did not speak
Of impending doom.

These are gifts of wonder
Sent to you and me,
And have been on their way
Throughout eternity.

Lily Tierney- Three Poems


I kept watching as
the squirrel jumped
from the branches.
A Cardinal flew away
the squirrel was
getting too close.
I stood and watched
this time I wasn't
running away.


Daylight streaming
through a broken window.

Dreams in the night
flowing in her subconscious.
At the break in dawn
all vanished.
If only, she would fix
that window.


A ringing phone
knock on the door
neither was answered.

Sleeping, his dreams
never traveled far
enough to be
with me.

He'll wake up, and
see the room he is in.

Jane Blanchard- A Poem

Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia.  Her work has appeared previously in Calvary Cross and recently in the Anglican Theological Review, The Seventh Quarry, and Thema.

finding one lost sheep
too often translates into
losing ninety-nine

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

All That Is
(For Charlotte)

You are not more,
You are not less,
You are part
Of all that is.

You are not more,
You are not less,
You cannot imagine
All that is...

Though you are small,
Without you,
There is no all that is.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Waiting Room

First time seeing this doctor,
a specialist. Took a month
to get an appointment.
The waiting room’s packed.
I grab the last seat 
next to a lady in a wheelchair
knitting something,
perhaps for a grandchild. 

I pull out my cell phone 
like everyone else
but just to check messages,
not into games.  
No one’s looking at magazines,
it seems, any more.
It’s a cell phone world,
messages and Tic-Tac-Toe.

Half an hour later the lady 
stops knitting and whispers
“Sit back and relax, son. 
Life’s a waiting room.
We all have appointments.
Every name is called.
Even those who believe
no doctor is in.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. 

Friday, December 11, 2015

Richard Schnap- A Poem


He winds his way down the crippled streets
As the crackle of gunshots punctures the air

From a store where nothing is worth what it costs
Where he learned that day he had been laid off

Now he is caught in a fresher web
Unsure how to pay his meager rent

Feeling once more that to be alive
Means learning to live with the fear of death

For the doctor had ordered an expensive test
To gauge the damage he carries within

From the uncle that raped him multiple times
Infusing his body with the threat of AIDS

But like so many whose chances are slim
He places his life in the hands of God

As he opens his Bible to the story of Job
To read once again why he shouldn’t give up

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Judgment Day

If I knew I'd live forever 
I'd never send a poem out.
No poem ever comes with

ten fingers and ten toes
so I’d keep revising, add 
what's missing, remove

what shouldn’t be there
and put in the right fillip.
One can only write 

while the sun streams in 
because too soon 
the moon comes out 

and in the dark 
one can’t fix a thing.
Once you’re dead

your poems live on,
warts and all, naked 
on a sheet of foolscap 

or afloat in cyberspace 
for all to read and fault.
It’s Judgment Day.

Billionaire and Beggar

A billionaire and beggar
die on the same day,
miles apart. They
never knew each other
but that’s no matter.

The billionaire is buried
with pomp reflecting
wealth and stature.

The beggar’s lowered 
in a potter’s field.
Two workers shovel. 
One says a prayer. 

Years later 
a major quake tosses 
thousands of caskets. 

Popped lids confirm
a truth the billionaire
and beggar share.

Dust and bones 
in both their caskets.
Equality lies here.

Just for a Day

If you want to know
what it’s like to have nothing
just for a day

head for Skid Row.
Trade your suit and 20 bucks
for the attire of a resident

standing against a wall.
Buy a tin cup and yellow pencils
and go to Union Station in time

for the evening rush hour
when suburbanites with jobs
on Michigan Avenue go home

for dinner and a little HBO.
Flop down near the entrance 
in your tatters with pencils and cup.

Wear Charles Bronson sunglasses
and hold high a sign that says,
“Will Work for Food.”

Count the briefcases that sail by 
and see how many pencils you sell,
how many people even look at you 

before the gendarmes arrive
and poke you with a baton
then walk you away.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Ramona Thompson- A Poem

Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, Infernal Ink, Erotic Tales of The Paranormal, Howl and many more.

Fans/readers may reach her via facebook or her e-mail


Why Santa Claus? Why Not Jesus?

Caught up in the holiday hustle and bustle
It seems
Once again
We have lost our way
All merry and bright
We find delight
In all the wrong Earthly things
And none of the right Heavenly ones

Forget the reason for the season
Swoon over
Selfish gift giving
And make gluttons of ourselves
At the tables of greedy holiday feasts
Pretend to care
For family and friends
In other times
We go so far
As to call fiends

Misplaced values
Selfish deeds
We make it
Again and again
All about the money
What we can get
And from whom
Giving Him the coldest of shoulders
What the Hell are we teaching our kids nowadays?

So enjoy your stocking stuffers
All your many pretties
Under the tree
In time
They'll pass away
While He'll still be here
Now the only question is
Will there be enough of your soul left to save?
After this holiday season has passed

2015 Ramona Thompson

Sunday, November 29, 2015

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

Water of Gladness

May the love of the Lord,
And the beauty of His creation,
Become a river and a Stream,
That they may flow through your heart,
And fill it over full with
The water of gladness.

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

putting my stones down

maybe if we could drop
all our stones
Your name
would be better glorified
in a hard, bitter
forgetful of all the good and remembering
all of the bad;
maybe if we clothed and fed those
who needed help
You would shine through our eyes—
if we could remember
You don't judge us for all the wickedness
we've done
perhaps then we could remember You love them
as much You love us.

like You

if You could forgive
all the vile
i have done,
then why shouldn't i forgive those
who hurt me?
You gave me perfect grace
and perfect love
so i cannot
to love others because in loving them
i become like You,
and that is what you've called me to be.

being a blessing like You

there has to be a change
in who we are if we are to be
like You
if we truly want to make a difference
then we need to put down our stones
lose our pride,
and remember to love and have compassion
even for those who don't deserve it;
because none of us
deserve Your perfect grace,
and yet if we accept Your mercy then You rain
down Your blessings
so i hope to bless others as You've blessed

Friday, November 13, 2015

Ramona Thompson- A Poem

Don't Get So High

If you can't stay
Clean and sober
At least do
This one thing
Have the guts enough to
Not turn your back completely
Give at least a little bit
Over to him
Don't forget
From whom and where you come from

He made you
Now that devil monkey on your back
Desperate to break you
Remake you
In the image of Hell on Earth
That demon drug
Got you in its grip
And don't look like
It's gonna let go any time soon

Far from Heaven
But it's never too late
To ask
To be forgiven
Step back from
Falling off that fatal deep end
He can save you
But only if you don't stray
All the way away

So i'll ask you
Just once
Not twice
Don't make that mistake
Don't think
You can make it
100 percent
Without him
There to guide and protect you
When the bottom finally falls out
My son
Don't get so high
You forget
Jesus is love forever
The drug is only short term

2015 Ramona Thompson

Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, Infernal Ink, Erotic Tales of The Paranormal, Howl and many more.

Fans/readers may reach her via facebook or her e-mail

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Bruce Mundhenke- Three Poems

Eternal Moment

In a moment of beauty I looked around
And all I saw was You.
If that moment could have lasted forever,
Forever it would have been new.

The Word

Have you not heard the Word,
Sighing in the breeze,
Descending with the rain,
Singing in the trees?
All that is heard came by the Word.

The Garden

There were trees there in the garden,
They flourished in the wind,
Placed there with love,
Each to the others companion and friend.

Heavenly dew on their branches,
Not a rain drop yet had come.
Their joy was exceedingly full,
Knowing where they were from.

There was as yet no time there,
The past and present were one,
Endless euphoria...
No evil yet had been done.

And they knew the Ancient One,
For He walked often in that grove,
They loved and were loved in perfect love,
And none with another strove.

Some still visit the garden,
For a brief time now and then,
And all of us long for the Ancient One,
He will walk among us again.

Bruce Mundhenke has worked as a laborer and a registered nurse.
He enjoys reading and writing poetry and he just started trying to publish some of it. He lives in Illinois with his wife,their niece, and their dog and cat.

Monday, November 9, 2015

Allison Grayhurst- Three Poems

Courage Where I Lie
It’s been my right hand on fire,
my eyes undertow
and my lips sliced by ant bites
that brought me to this landscape
of difficult beauty
where there is no allowance for sun,
but still, there is joy
within the darkness. There are shapes
and there is
This land of undefined lines
and little colour, where the warmest beat
has died, and even that, somehow, is
surmountable. A land where miracles
will not be defeated by death
or by a torn perfection.

I Try To Breathe
God said
I didn’t do it out of malice,
I did it out of mercy.
And so I try to understand
through the emotion of purified faith.
I try to recognize the truth petrified within
like a soul cracked and brittle
but still shining its unique glow.
The cold egg sits in my pocket.
I keep it there for when I get hungry,
if I get hungry,
which doesn’t seem to happen much
So it sits, cold, rubbery and whole,
sits, an egg too squished to roll,
sits for potential nourishment, as security without salt.
I try not to use it. I try to hold onto what God said
and breathe that in
as my only necessary

The Many Lights of Eden
The one with many lights
standing by the new water
traveled by carrying a throne on his shoulders.
Bartholomew came and
Bartholomew wandered
like a visitor where ever he was.
The one brought by fear’s inception
(fear of being rejected and a
desperation to be loved)
also brought a strange deception.
But the one with many lights
speaks softly on the inside
and leaves all bodies easily breathing.

Bio:Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Twice nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, she has over 700 poems published in over 330 international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, seven chapbooks, and a chapbook pending publication. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay;
            Some of the places my work has appeared in include Parabola (Alone & Together print issue summer 2012); Elephant Journal; Literary Orphans; Blue Fifth Review; The American Aesthetic; Agave Magazine; JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, South Florida Arts Journal; Gris-Gris; The Muse – An International Journal of Poetry, Storm Cellar, morphrog (sister publication of Frogmore Papers); New Binary Press Anthology; The Brooklyn Voice; Straylight Literary Magazine (print); The Milo Review; Foliate Oak Literary Magazine; The Antigonish Review; Dalhousie Review; The New Quarterly; Wascana Review; Poetry Nottingham International; The Cape Rock; Ayris; Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry; The Toronto Quarterly; Fogged Clarity, Boston Poetry Magazine; Decanto; White Wall Review.  


Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Night Light 
The last visitor before I sleep
is always the old priest
puffing up the stairs to my door,
a wine cask under each arm,
a loaf of pumpernickel in his teeth.
He’s always too late to give the last rites,
and even though I’m usually dead by then,
it falls to me to console him.
So I say, “Father, Father,
you don’t have to hurry.
Faith is no longer a klieg.
It’s a night light left burning all day,
and its bulb is hissing.”
Donal Mahoney

This poem was first published in 
Commonweal Magazine, November 6, 2009. 

Ramona Thompson- A Poem

Keeping The Christ

It's his day
Day of his birth
So why are we so selfish?
Why won't we share?
When did it all become about us?
Instead of what he did for us
On the cross
Gave his all
Yet we can't give him
This one simple thing

What's gone wrong here?
When did we forget?
When did we turn our backs?
It's all not just about
The presents and the food
It's about him
Those who deny this
Well I feel sorry for them
Denying their lord and maker
Just maybe going to Hell

If you don't love him now
During his special time of the year
You've got no right
To praise him any other time
Cause the Lord and everyone knows
You don't really mean it
So why don't you just quit?
Trying to sell it
Unbeliever all year long
You're oh so wrong
And you know it

So jingle those bells
Kiss under those mistletoes
But nothing's gonna change the facts
We're at war here
Between greed and the truth
At the end on which side will you be standing?
I don't know about you
But this year I'll be keeping the Christ
Keeping the Christ in Christmas!

2015 Ramona Thompson

Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, Infernal Ink, Erotic Tales of The Paranormal, Howl and many more.

Fans/readers may reach her via facebook or her e-mail

Ron Riekki- A Poem

The Everything of God

We can fit

so much

into a narrow






Bio: Ron Riekki's books include Here, The Way North, and U.P.

Heather Browne- Three Poems

Palm Sunday

We handed out palm fronds,
cut down for today,
to wave and welcome our Holy King.
Swinging and singing
Our leaves dry out, they separate
from branch,
and fall at our feet.
His carpeted walk
I left them there.
Laying down Jesus. 

Worshippers didn’t notice,
stepping on them,
over them, as they left.
Jesus at our feet.

I stayed and picked them up,
one by one.
Now, a leathery hide,
tougher, ribs and veins protruding,
I rubbed them.
Jesus in my hands,
as they wither,
losing life,
and tear.

Recycling Palm Sunday

He pulled down the fronds
from the cross
Duct tape – no nails
Easily removed – leaving no mark
I hadn’t thought much about them, until they were gone.
Do we welcome Jesus to the cross?

He crumpled them, tossing
them into the white plastic trash bag,
picking up remnants – leaving no trace
Sealed and pitched

I went and reclaimed it,
making it mine.
Plastic doesn’t break down
Preserving decomposing
Tearing the body bag
with nails,
a musty sharp smell
tightening throat – hard to breathe
I placed the palms on top
of our mulch pile,
where gardeners would work them,
covering them
and returning them into the earth,
until the time
to spring forth
new life.

Our Daily Bread

October moon refused his place and kneeled
Pulling low on azure sky
Unfinished brass and beaded chain
He came to light, dangling far beneath the stars

Longing all the world to know his saints
Ignatius, Sophia, Mother Mary
Glorifying their names, rolling beads upon the wind
Palms bow and blow

Give us this day our daily bread
Communion wafer waxed offered reverently upon our hungered tongue
Everything, everything under the stars and moon
Obtainable in preservation 

John Kaniecki- A Poem

Help Me Jesus
Help me Jesus, be my guide
Help me Jesus, I wanna hide
To hide away
From the dark day
Help me Jesus to understand
That everything is in your hand
Help me Jesus bring some hope
It’s hard to live, hard to cope
The devil he wears five stars
Hangs out in the finest bars
He wears suits of exquisite silk
The banker, the lawyer that is their ilk
Satan he is the dark foe
But he still doesn’t know
That what happened on the cross
It was Satan’s biggest loss
Help me Jesus, to proclaim
The victory in your name
Help my Lord this I pray
Help me today

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Lily Tierney- A Poem


I know it is quicksand,
the more you struggle
the deeper it takes you.

Just float it can't be more
than a few feet.
But, it feels like a tunnel
going into the depths of
my soul.

A stranger's hand reaching out,
I grasp it having known this person
for eternity.

I can see myself in the mirror,
my reflection is full of sand and clay.
I, however, have been washed clean; as if
baptized for the sins I never committed.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Character Flaw

Millie wants Willie to make up,
go back to the way they were,
be lovey-dovey, hunky-dory.
Willie wishes he could 

but that’s not the way he is.
He has a character flaw,
permanent as a birthmark
his mother told him 

when he was only six.
Some folks can forgive 
and then forget but that’s 
not you Willie, she said.

When he heard about 
the crucifixions in Syria,
he said that's genocide, 
plain and simple. 

Willie’s can't forget 
a wrong, big or small.
It’s hard to forgive, he says,
never mind forget ISIS.

You’re not ISIS, Willie,
his Millie reassures him.
You just have a conscience.
No nails, no hammer.

Donal Mahoney

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri,
far from Syria where ISIS continues to crucify
Christians—23 the other day—and he hears
no mention of it on our mainstream media. 

Monday, November 2, 2015

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Angels, Devils and Halloween

Three are known by name, 
Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, 
but there are a zillion angels,

pure spirits who have no wings 
like those we draw on Cherubim, 
the baby angels, or the wings we add

to Seraphim, that mighty choir 
of angels singing Hosannas 
day and night in heaven.

You see, it’s the Guardian Angels
I’m partial to, not the ones 
who patrol Central Park

separating guns from joggers.
I mean real Guardian Angels, 
the ones who fight fallen angels,

the real devils who create hell in us
while kids wear horns on Halloween.
If Guardian Angels had wings

I’m sure they’d be battered and torn 
after fighting the devils we entertain
every day not just on Halloween. 

Donal Mahoney

Angels indeed are in the Bible but in recent years they seem to have been adopted by the New Age Movement, something that recently brought them to the attention of the writer who previously had not thought that much about them. He’s happy believing in the Trinity even if due to the finite mind he shares with all humans, he will never understand the Trinity on Earth. 

Andrew M. Bowen- A Poem

No gems adorning
throats can match the stars sprinkled
across the sky.  I
wonder which of them warms the
world upon which Christ now works.

Andrew M. Bowen works as a sales manager in Bloomington, IN.  He has published 26 poems and recently submitted his first two novels for publication.  He is also an actor who has has appeared in eight independent films, six stage productions,and one radio teleplay.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

Ramona Thompson- Two Poems

With A Friend Like Jesus

Can't go wrong
If you got him
In the place to be
In the thick of your life
Get on your knees
And you just may find
A whole new way of living
Cause with a friend like Jesus
On your side today
No way tomorrow
Any enemy can take you down

Gotta trust sometime
Why not make it now?
Let him take control
Turn your wheel
Away from the path of self desires and trouble
You've been on way too long
Stop, look and listen baby
Turn that bible page
Embrace what you know is right
Jesus forever
What do you say?

The crowning glory
Yours for the asking
Lord of lords
King of kings
Won't you ask him in?
Won't you turn your back?
Deny all sin
Take him in and above
Let him show you
The way, the truth and the light
Revealed in him tonight

2015 Ramona Thompson

Breath of Life

Come to me now
Give unto me
Your will for my own
Guide me
Through the forests
Over the rivers
Let no doubt
Drown or subside me
Entrust in me
Your power
Your glory
Oh lord
Give me your all

Take me to my knees
Loosen up my doubt
Replace it with precious faith
The joy of knowing
In you
I can find
All I'll ever need
No devil to clip this angel's wings
No, not today
For my lord
I've found
The ultimate paradise
At your side

And so I raise
Hands to the Heavens
Lips praying to only you
Now and forever more
I cannot
Will not live
Without you
Sweet breath of life
I love you

2015 Ramona Thompson

Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, Infernal Ink, Erotic Tales of The Paranormal, Howl and many more.

Fans/readers may reach her via facebook or her e-mail


Friday, October 30, 2015

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Heart Broken

What you think can’t tell you what you feel but how you feel can determine what you think for a while at least. 

Or so I discovered in a hurry when I met an old priest I’ve known for years coming out of church one morning recentlyUsually upbeat, he looked startled and goggle-eyed and said, “I can’t believe it but I lost my job!

I said, “What job, Father? You’re still the pastor.”

Then he told me how for the last 20 years every weekday afternoon he would drive from the city into the country, a long round trip, and say an afternoon Mass for a group of retired nuns in their rural convent. 

These were nuns too old or too ill to get up for the usual morning Mass. So my pastor would say his morning Mass every day at his small parish in the city for his parishioners, no longer youngsters either, then read the newspaper, attend to parish matters, eat lunch, get in his old Toyota and head for the convent out in the country. The nuns appreciated his never missing a day.

Whoever the bishop in the area was 20 years ago, and I can’t remember his name, had asked him to say the Mass for the nuns because the priest was then already 64 and not too busy compared with other priests with bigger parishes. 

It wasn’t actually a job in that he was paid only in gas money. But it was a duty he took seriously as he did just about everything else in life. 

Besides, old nuns moved him as much as they do old lay people like me who had been educated by nuns long ago in grammar school. In my case they had done a great job with not that much to work with in terms of my attitude. They had forced me to study by telling my father I had the brains. All I had to do was the work instead of rolling marbles down the aisle and pulling the pigtails of girls. 

I finally did the work because although the nuns didn’t scare me, my father certainly did. Life’s been good because of the nuns’ encouragement and my father looming like a not-too-jolly green giant.

Nevertheless I asked the priest that day why he took the job in the first place and he said, “Well, you don’t say no to the bishop if you don’t want to risk reassignment to a parish in Timbuktu.” 

We both laughed at that and it was the only laugh I heard from him that day. And, come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh since although I see him at least once a week. He’s beginning to look 84.

He told me the nuns had told him they had found a younger priest to say their Mass, one in a new parish in a small town not far from their convent, one who wouldn’t have to drive so far during the bad winter weather to get to them, something my pastor had been doing for two decades. 

He was accident-free on his daily trips often over slippery highways and country roads going from the city to the convent and back again but, after all, he was now 84. 

At that age, he was older than many of the nuns he said Mass for. 

They told him they knew he was going to heaven. They just didn’t want him to have an accident coming to say Mass for them and arrive in heaven ahead of schedule.

So instead they broke a heart that may beat a few years longer.

Donal Mahoney

The writer knows this to be largely a true story with a few things changed to protect the innocent on both sides. They are all innocent in that they all the love the Lord Jesus Christ and want to do the right thing but sometimes being human can cause a little sadness as we grow older. The priest involved would go anywhere to spread the Word of God. He still does it every day at his home parish.

JD DeHart- A Poem


There were phylacteries
around their heads
like lions' manes,
around their minds like
chains, but it doesn't have
to be the way,
you can love God and love
thought at the same time.

Tempest Brew- A Poem

so much

they tell me that God
loved me so much
that he gave
more than any could

they tell me the
easy answers
life is this way because
of sin

I want the real God
that stirs this world
with the real answers
and the raw truth

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Apostrophe in Eternity

A coffin’s not so bad, the old monk told me,
the two of us standing there, a foot or two 
from the monk who had died the day before

and was lying now in a pine casket.
He was younger, only 83, the old monk said, 
and healthy, too, and yet he got there 

before I did, a lucky soul if you believe 
that life's an apostrophe in eternity 
standing in momentarily

for Who we’re all dying to meet.
If we didn’t believe that, the old monk said,
neither of us would have come here.

He was an engineer, like you, for years 
and I would have been a forest ranger, 
hard to believe two men like us would 

spend our lives praying for hours a day 
and making cheddar cheese in between
I’ll give you some to take home to the family.

The cheese is worth the trip, he laughed. 
We monks make the best of it
until the apostrophe disappears.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.