Gregg Dotoli- A Poem

True Loss (root)

the first day 

man sold art

freedom flew and beauty's eyes grew

nervous like a lost child

profit gnashing consumed Art of each type

the great anti-muse criticism

deflated and suppressed 

human creativity

riveted by institutional protocol

driven by feeble sickly judges

creators heard the flute of dissuasion 

while the muses wept

vowing to never quit

waring with slings of hope

and the golden seed of wonder

planted deep within each newborn

 

 

Francis Annagu- A Poem

Watering Dreams

The broad-back woman
At the well stood azure
Like green leaves opening
Out their pores to absorb
Sun. She has a pelvic pain
Within her abdomen of womanhood,
A childless foetus like bucket-
Full of dreams quixoting
In her terrainous road.
She unwillingly tied a strand
Around her neck pulling
Up rusted-wheels of black water
From the ball-round well
To wet a vegetation dry,
Planted behind her lost memories.



Francis Annagu have been published on Galway Review, Tuck Magazine,
Ayiba Magazine, Kalahari Review, Sunflower Collective, Ancient Path
Literary Journal, Commonline Journal, WRR, Potomac Review, The Poet
Community and others.

Lily Tierney- A Poem

Faith

He is majestic

in all of nature,

as our senses

are baptized

by His loving presence.

Angelica Fuse- Two Poems

Angel Path

maybe there

is the dust

of heaven

surrounding me

even now

 

Wither

she reached

out wizened

hand to the master's

robe

and reached back

new and whole

 

 

JD DeHart- A Poem

Person of Faith

The voice whispers to me, all I’m used to is a whisper:

            Do you believe?

Believe like the whisper I heard in the woods when I was a child, wind through trees, twitter of insects.  I am emic and etic at the same time, a dynamic of tension.  I belong here in this Kingdom and yet I don’t.

Believe like the abandoned church in the woods, composed of broken wood, an empty pulpit, a silent congregation, and leaf-strewn pews.  It was a place I wanted to reside in.

Believe like the plush smell of the new church down the road, complete with inside baptistery

so we don’t have to go down to the creek anymore, pressing my face to the soft floor.

Believe like a circle of lights in the sky over a praying family or the story of a prophet in the Old Testament.  Or the truth behind the story, the reality of the dusty ground, the trial and the error, the pain of trying to listen to the sky, ear straining.

I will never stop believing.

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from Red Dashboard.

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                            "Hands, Detroit"

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

SEEING is Believing

You've been shown
The beauty
Of the morning
Sky at dawn.
You have also
Seen the sunset
Before daylight has gone.
When you look up
At the night sky
You are gazing at a fire,
That appears
A visual symphony,
And yet sings like a choir.
You have seen a flower
That seemed to come forth in a day.
Mere tokens of His beauty,
And no matter what some say,
Science is inadequate
To explain the LORD away.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Believe It or What?

He doesn’t have to prove anything to me. The Holy Spirit, that is. I’ve always known He’s there, from childhood on, even if I ignored Him for many years. But like others growing older, I thank Him now and then just for being there. I think it helps to pay one’s dues as early as possible.

The other night, however, an odd thing happened. I couldn’t get to sleep and usually I’m asleep once my head’s on the pillow. I kept changing positions but nothing seemed to work. I was wide awake. And then my arms began to tremble, first one arm, then the other. Alarming, let me tell you. 

I tried everything to make the trembling stop: rolling over, trying new positions, shaking my arms. I didn’t want to disturb my wife who was watching a Turner Classic Movie because I had no idea what I'd ask her to do since nothing like this had ever happened to either of us before. I never read about the problem, either, in the many medical bulletins we receive. I like to know in advance what might kill me.

Twenty minutes later, my arms were still trembling, more, not less. I was another Lawrence Welk, recumbent though I was, and I was growing a tad frantic. Is this how Parkinson’s says hello, I wondered.

Then I remembered my faith says that the Holy Spirit, the Third Person of the Trinity, lives in me and other members of His church, which is something I accept but feel unworthy of in light of past performance, if you will. And it’s certainly not something I brag about to atheists or agnostics or folks for whom the Trinity is not an article of faith. 

I know I’m supposed to proselytize but even if I did it as much as some others do, I don’t think I would begin by telling folks the Holy Spirit lives in me. There are other ways to introduce Him and let Him take it from there. 

The interesting thing is that although I’ve asked Him in the past to help others going through trials I don’t recall ever asking Him for a personal favor, so to speak. Perhaps it’s because I’ve lived a long life with ups and downs and never really thought to call on Him during the downs or until lately to thank Him for the ups. 

I’ve called on Jesus at times during the downs. That’s pretty normal for a Christian. But not the Holy Spirit or God the Father.

This time, however, with my arms inexplicably trembling just short of violently, I decided to ask the Holy Spirit to stop them. It wasn’t a prayer. I just asked Him silently. I still didn’t want to disturb my wife who takes old movies seriously. 

You probably know what happened next or I wouldn’t be telling you all this. In a minute, no more than two, after I had asked the Holy Spirit to stop the trembling, my arms stopped. Not one more tremble. I had given the baton back to Lawrence Welk and he had the band playing a favorite of mine from my youth called “In Heaven They Have No Beer, That’s Why We Drink It Here.”

Seriously, though, either the Holy Spirit stopped the trembling or something mental or physical kicked in at that moment and the trembling stopped. 

I’m not too big on miracles once you get beyond the ones in the Bible. I have no problem with Jesus turning the water into wine at Cana or His multiplication of the loaves and fishes or any of the other miracles performed by Jesus and the apostles as explained in Scripture. But the miracles performed by healers on TV, I’m not too big on those. Pin me down and I’d say they don’t pass the smell test. My smell test. But ask me again and I’d say God can do whatever He wants through anyone he pleases. 

As Pope Francis said on the plane, “Who am I to judge?"

All I know right now is that my arms stopped trembling as soon as I asked the Holy Spirit for the biggest favor of my life. I had a good night’s sleep and my arms have not started trembling again. 

I already have an appointment set up with my internist and I will tell him exactly what happened. I’ll tell him everything that I’ve told you here. And if he prescribes electroshock treatments for me, I’ll find a new doctor. He can believe it or what?

Donal Mahoney

————————————————————————

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at  http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

 

 

Linda Barrett- A Poem

Linda Barrett is a prolific poet with her work seen in her church's newsletter called the St. John's Anglican Evangelist. She earned awards for her work in the Montgomery County Community College Writer's contest three years running. Ms. Barrett lives in Abington, a suburb of Philadelphia, Pa. for over 50 years.

               

Knitted within my Mother’s womb

                         

One cell

Expands within 

My mother’s womb

Father’s sperm inserts

Into her ova, ignites

His DNA into hers then

They blend and the cell

Separates into two within one

Multiplies from two to three

Four to five then sixes and sevens

At the first month,

The baby’s own separate genetic structure

Builds from within its own helix 

 Curled up inside the placenta

Umbilical cord earning nourishment

Attached to my mother’s uterus’ wall

Two months later,

My eyes are two small dots

I resemble a tadpole

Fingers and toes form

My nose breathes amniotic fluid 

Three months:

Brain and spinal column work

Thoughts float around in them

As does my growing infant body.

My small heart pounds 

within my translucent form

swimming in the womb.

Six months later:

Fingerprints form on my hands

Swirling hair crowns my skull

Skin covers the body

Nine months later:

the time comes when

contractions push me out

into the world

a being

fearfully and wonderfully made

by God.

Ramona Thompson- A Poem

Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past credits include How To Trick The Devil, Howl, Inner Fears, Blood Moon Rising, Infernal Ink, Calvary Cross, Dead Snakes and many more.

 

Readers/fans may stalk her on facebook or her e-mail reddstar111@gmail.com

 

 

 

In An Angel's House

 

If you're lost
Feel you just can't be found
Ever again
Don't give up hope
Just hand it all over to Him
Sweetest lord and savior
Blesser of your soul
He will raise you back up again
From the cruel ashes of ruin

You're never truly doomed
Unless you let yourself be
Cold and lonely
Afraid
I know you are
Cause I've been there too
Kicked down in the dirt
Abandoned by family and friends
So ashamed
To reach for a hand
Any helping hand

Then I found what you too can find
If you just seek
The key to a whole new and better future
A way to live
Sober and free
At His mercy
Doing His will
Fitting in at last
Where you belong
Carrying that holy cross
In an angel's house
Where you're never alone

2016 Ramona Thompson

Bruce Mundhenke- Two Poems

Touched

Touched by a silent
Hand of grace,
Removed for a moment
From time and space.


The Way

When at first I found you,
Love was all I knew,
All my familiar surroundings
Seemed to me suddenly new.

One Spirit had always been there,
But I became aware,
That all that was around me,
Had all been placed with care.

I began to see that beauty,
Was present every day,
Behind the mask of fear,
If we only find the way.

Ruth Z. Deming- Two Poems

HE IS RISEN

I open up my red door
where the choirs proclaim
He is risen
He is risen

Black crow from Nancy's lawn
Gray jacko from Bea's back yard
Woodpecker on the last of my maples
Cardinals swooping hither and yon
beneath the infinitude of gray sky
and sleeping Full Moon

He is risen
He is risen

Watcher of the skies,
I stand starstruck
on my little porch
smelling my lamb stew
in the kitchen
while my stereo plays
For Unto Us A Child is Born

Wonderful! Counselor!
The Prince of Peace!

My house is a place of
warmth, of life, of flowers
blooming on the window sills

My thanks ring out to
The Mighty God
The Everlasting Father
Hear my plea
Will there ever be an
end to strife and poverty
and hunger on this
earth?

The infinitude of the sky
looks down as one lone
dove dips his weary
head into the
bird bath



PRAYERS FOR DONNA

The rattlesnake of
Depression squeezes
her

Voice quivers
like a high-strung
violin

Save me
save me
she calls to
her Jesus

My voice
joins with hers
Save her
Sweet Jesus
before she
dies on her
cross



Ruth Z. Deming has had her poetry published in lit mags including Mad Swirl, Ray's Road Review and East Jasmine Review. A mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder and their loved ones. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Praise for Him

Every day

comes praise for Him

everywhere in nature

a cricket chirps

a wren sings

a wolf howls

Once a week 

comes praise for Him

from man 

hymns are sung

scripture’s read

a sermon said

but for cricket 

wren and wolf no

coffee and donuts later

 

 

 

Cam Kurer- Two Poems

Under the Telephone Pole

at midnight on a hill
overlooking the city

i come to pray
and worship

lost and wondering
waiting to hear his voice

just a new found believer
searching for answers

the world i came from
was hopeless and desperate

I look up at the stars
into the eyes of the living god

not quite comprehending
that he would die
on a pole

to speak his love for me.



Sunday Worship

hiking the woods
i am in the assembly
of the created

autumn trees become
stained glass windows

the polyphony of canada geese
lift my eyes heavenward

the choir of aspen
clap their hands
in praise

the steeples beyond
ring urgent bells

a reminder
i am late
for worship

but today
i am in no hurry


Personal Bio: Cam Kurer received his English degree with an emphasis in creative writing from the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. He has published his poetry in The Fredericksburg Literary Review, The Northern Cardinal Review, The Whirlwind Review, and others. He currently resides on a small farm in southeastern Wisconsin.

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

Pearls

There aren't always answers
For the questions in your mind,
But often fate will show you,
Things you're meant to find.

Your journey is a long one,
And you won't arrive today,
But you will gather a pearl or two
As you move along your way.

Your teacher, who surrounds you,
Not bound by time and space,
Has already dropped the charges,
That you were going to face.

You borrow a moment here and there,
And pay interest a year or two,
And what made your heart soar yesterday,
Is today an old brown shoe.

But you remember times when love,
In an instant set you free,
You flowed with what is, no fear in your heart,
Right where you should be.

And the beauty of that moment,
Will find you once again,
And the teacher that surrounds you,
Has patience without end.




Bruce Mundhenke has worked as a laborer and a registered nurse.
He enjoys nature, reading, writing poetry, and long walks. He has published poems in Calvary Cross, Dead Snakes, UFO Gigolo,  Plum Tree Tavern, and Jellyfish Whispers. He lives in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.

Curt Peterson- A Poem

Curt Peterson resides in beautiful Western North Carolina with is wife of 45 years. He is the proud father of eight children and loving grandfather of fifteen grandchildren. He has been writing poetry since the age of eight. He is inspired by all forms of art which use the power of imagery to warm the soul.

THE CARPENTER

The beginning began as such

Quiet and uneventful; abstract.

As we grew from infancy

We placed planks in a neat order,

Tacking together with nails,

Forming a base open on all sides,

Allowing light to fully encompass

Our souls uninhibited.

Time pressed forth and we

Took many paths of interest,

Some this way, some that,

Building walls about our floored foundation.

Acknowledging the need for light to filter in,

We framed windows in our walls of misdirection.

Through one wall a doorway made

Entrance to our inner sanctuary.

But these walls were forlorn and empty;

Searching for an unknown truth.

Our lives half formed, crested dawn's horizon,

Only to find our cornerstones

Were melded together once upon a time.

Our exterior walls, butted to each,

Fell away to drawn curtain folds

And as days passed by into memory,

We singularly became a union of inner dreams.

So we began,

A roof encompassing our remaining walls,

Gave strength to the shivering timber.

Slow deliverance formed an interior

Of security, serenity, love, and trust.

We chose walls of privacy and walls of joy,

Walls for girls, walls for boys,

Painted upon with our reflection of life.

Years went by;

Some parts of our maze gradually became memories,

And as we choose, some clouded, some clear;

For the Lord has made us this way.

Today our doorstep is graced by a

Porch, covered, and railed;

A partial seclusion

But also a welcome

To our travelers in life,

And a freescape to our

Imagination once more.