Spring 2026--Tension--Contents
Feature 1, Poetry
1. John Delaney, “Too Bad”
2. Melanie Faith, “Newton’s Cradle,” “Folding the Twilight,” “All the Women Who Write Letters in Oil Paintings”
3. Vivian Finley Nida, “Dear Vincent”
Feature 2, More Poetry
1. Robin Woolman, “Virga” –with picture, “We Turn into Birds”
2. Sherry Poff, “Rahab Remembers”
3. John Guzlowski, “Every Poem”
4. Vali Mitchell, “Beaded Steps,” “Now I Get the Book of Job”
5. Donna Langevin, “In the Tunnel for a Spinal MRI, I Cope with Tension”
Feature 3, More Poetry
1. Nancy Byrne Iannucci, “Dense Frankincense”
2. Tyson West, “Borderline”
3. Becky Parker, “Essence of Whiskey”
4. Mantz Yorke, “The Journey”
5. Patricia Hope, “Autobiography of Adam”
6. Clayton Spence, “Strange Angel”
Feature 4, More Poetry
1. April J. Asbury, “Assurance,” “Mama Lays Down the Law”
2. John C. Mannone, “Catenary”
3. Linda Vigen Phillips, “Bedewed,” “Hanging in Dawn”
4. Wendy Howe, “Sediment”
5. Brendan Dawson, “The Immiscible Us”
Feature 5, More Poetry
1. James Young, “Chapel once the beatitude”
2. Sean Whalen, “The Prodigal Leaves Again”
3. Sharon J. Clark, “Who am I talking to?”
4. Abraham Aondoana, “Loaves”
5. Emma-Jane Peterson, “Taming the Clown Show”
6. Wilderness Sarchild, “What Meets The Eye”
7. Wesley D. Sims, “Beach Imprints”
Feature 6, More Poetry
1. Terri Lynn Cummings, “Dalliance,”
2. Patrick Cabello Hansel, “Joseph’s Story,” “FOR LIV, ON HER 11th BIRTHDAY, PREPPED FOR HER 5th SURGERY IN 3 WEEKS
3. Thomas Koron, "The Glowing Lantern"
4. Charles A. Swanson, “Naked”
Feature 7, More Poems
Howard F. Stein, “The Grass Is Brown,” “Thoughts on Conducting Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony
Feature 8, Devotionals
1. Emily Babbitt, “Writing a Life Worth Living”
2. Kiyoshi Hirawa, “The Suffering that Awaits”
Feature 9, More Devotionals
1. Karen Ulm Rettig, “Celebrities”
2. Charles A. Swanson, “The Container Called Art”
Feature 1: Poets and Poems
See Below for Poems on the Theme of Tension
John Delaney
Too Bad
Too bad it had to end like this.
Everyone was having so much fun.
It’s hard to know just what we’ll miss
from all our aging in the sun.
Everyone was having so much fun,
dancing to the sound of music
while slowly aging in the sun.
We never thought that we’d get sick
and tired dancing to the sound of music,
holding our partners in our arms.
We never thought that we’d get sick
of feeling how slow rhythm charms.
Holding our partners in our arms
for as long as we could dance
that slower rhythm, we could feel its charms.
The world held magic and romance
for as long as we could dance.
Now it’s hard to know what more we’ll miss
from this world, the magic or romance.
Too bad it had to end like this.
About the Poet: After retiring as curator of historic maps at Princeton University Library, I moved out to Port Townsend, WA, and have traveled widely, preferring remote, natural settings. Since that transition, I’ve published Waypoints (2017), a collection of place poems, Twenty Questions (2019), a chapbook, Delicate Arch (2022), poems and photographs of national parks and monuments, Galápagos (2023), a collaborative chapbook of my son Andrew’s photographs and my poems, Nile (2024), a chapbook of poems and photographs about Egypt, Filing Order: Sonnets (2025), and CATechisms (2025), poems and photographs about my senior cat.
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Melanie Faith
Newton’s Cradle
it makes sense why
it’s called that this toy, first
encountered in the nursery for some
or perhaps later in a science lab
it all starts as most things
at rest at rest at rest
then a sudden disruption
the toy has no energy, no battery of its own, it
relies on a disruptor a wind-up and a let-go proxy
setting one into another into the rest
the metal swing-set frame
shivers a little against the table but withstands
the metal balls clacking a sharp percussive knock
that cannot be stopped as one dangling
silver sphere smack smacks into
the next and the next and the next
and isn’t it nearly impossible not to become
invested in watching the pouncing
pendulums ricochet forward, back, forward,
back a little less each time, a little less
until all silvery spheres sit undisturbed
not nearly long enough—always
the lure of the next wind-up, the jostling
of young hands gathered around a lab table
pushing and pushing closer to be the closest, to be
the next to take up an outermost weighted clear wire
and just drop it
Poet’s Notes: "Newton's Cradle" flashed me back to several childhood toys that I remember filling those ambery, long days of childhood and early adolescence. While writing the poem, I was pleased to have several pleasant conversations about the toy and also glad to hear that my friends and family had some good memories associated with the kinetic toy as well. I was also surprised to learn that while I initially remember my much younger self as more of a reader/imaginative-play kid, in reality I also had plenty of kinetic toys where movement played a large role in learning about myself and about the world. I'd like to write more poems about such kinetic objects and toys in the future. It's possible that these poems are an artistic attempt to slow down just a bit the jet engine of too-swiftly-moving years.
Melanie Faith
Folding the Twilight
I’d like to immerse myself in
that streaming loop with the song
about the quiet gentle snow,
the jazz piano
more like the soft fluff of a cat’s paws
after a good nap. Imagine
a cafe where you wait for a friend
already on their way, familiar
as family or a favorite sweater
you’ve worn more than half of your
life beside a wall of glass windows
where the warmth of overhead lights
look especially yellow. Can you feel
the way the ivory flakes have no place
better to be, no cares other than
accumulating? I put down my book.
I put down the fine-liner pen,
the barrel still snug from my fingertips,
from drawing face after face—
practice—on a thick mixed-
media page. Can you hear the wire brush
swish against the snare? A limpid staccato
that suggests quiet and cool, clear calm
more than rhythm. Settling in. Serenity
its own bright aliveness. I strive—though
don’t we all?—just to be here while I’m here.
Melanie Faith
All the Women Who Write Letters in Oil Paintings
by Vermeer and other Dutch masters
call out to me today. I know what the internet
says about symbolizing interiority and love, but
what I see most when I see their pensive faces, the lull
of the lemon light splashing in from a window their desks
face, their fountain pens poised above
pristine paper with wax and seals surrounding, at ready,
probably not what the painters wanted me to notice:
uninterrupted time. The free hours to sit,
uncluttered by pressures of what they’re not doing. In
absolutely no rush, they ponder, call to mind, and collect
thoughts of most important events, a string of beads
collated: the baby, fussy, has grown a first tooth;
the laying hens have offered enough bounty to share
with widows and the poor, one governess has left
to get married to the Latin tutor, the new cook has been
sent packing. All the rage this season: a blue-green muslin,
almost gray but for flecks of purple, a luxury
imported textile, almost impossible to get and costly, but
an entire bolt secured. Awaiting a morning fitting
from a dressmaker. A milliner’s visit shortly following.
About the Poet: Melanie Faith is a poet, writer, educator, editor, photographer, and frequent doodler. Her craft books through Vine Leaves Press offer tips on writing flash fiction, poetry, photography, teaching creative writing, and more. Check out her poetry collection, Does It Look Like Her? (2024), about a forty-something artist, and The Price of Breathing, in which a librarian, a love triangle, and the iron lung all make appearances (Vine Leaves Press, fall 2026). Learn more about Melanie’s classes and creative work at: https://www.melaniedfaith.com/ .
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Vivian Finley Nida
Dear Vincent,
Do not worry.
The sunflower is yours.
No other artist can claim it, even though breath
was taken from you more than a century ago,
more than five thousand miles
from this dusty road
where I stand
imagining you beside me,
not alongside the dark field of The Potato Eaters
but next to my family’s lush field of wheat.
The brim of your yellow straw hat
shades your eyes in blistering heat
as you study the light and space of the wheat,
its burnished gold and lustrous copper.
Above the crop, crows caw and swoop,
their iridescent feathers shimmering,
but rooted along the fence row,
sunflowers hold your attention.
An unrelenting wind wrestles them.
Their vibrant yellow petals struggle,
yet sturdy stems support the blooms,
brace them against the wire fence
as combines enter the field,
harvest the wheat.
Poet’s Notes: Among my favorite works of art are Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings of wheat fields and sunflowers, and I often think about his life, filled with anxiety, as I stand beside the fields on our farm. The book, Van Gogh, The Passionate Eye, by Pascal Bonafoux, published by Harry N. Abrams, Inc., includes letters from Vincent to his brother Theo, which gave me the idea of writing an epistolary poem.
About the Poet: Vivian Finley Nida is a retired English and Creative Writing teacher and a Teacher/Consultant with the Oklahoma Writing Project. Since its inception in 1999, she has been a member of the advisory committee for Oklahoma City University’s Thatcher Hoffman Smith Poetry Center, which brings an award winning poet to campus each year. Her poetry appears in Oklahoma Humanities magazine and other fine publications. The title of her book of poetry, From Circus Town USA, published by Village Books Press, comes from the nickname of her hometown, Hugo, Oklahoma, which serves as winter headquarters for several circuses and is home to the Endangered Ark Foundation, a non-profit dedicated to the preservation of Asian elephants. She and her husband live in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
Beach at Assateague Island, Virginia. Photograph by Gail Swanson
Feature 2: More Poets and Poems
The Theme of Tension as Imagined by Poets
Robin Woolman
Virga
Clouds muster
their weight in water.
The forecast seems certain, but
some rains never reach the ground.
I brooded over possible apologies:
the proper cumulus of words that could have--
Cloud-shadows pattern the landscape,
confident wind shuffles the bitterbrush.
Thorns and dirt are thirsty, still
some rains never touch the ground.
--might have--cleansed my guilt, cleared the air
that clouded our once fertile congress;
A solitary cloud bursts open.
Columns of droplets shimmer in promise--
then vanish, sucked up by a siccative wind.
Virga, ashamed, never kisses the ground.
only to intone them every
dried-out day since you passed
over this chalice of ash
you left me.
Poet’s Notes: Hiking in Owens valley in California I witnessed the weird phenomenon of rain sheeting in the air but disappearing before it hit the ground. A bit of research and I discovered the name "virga." I knew it would be a great metaphor...just took me several poetic forays to figure out how I wanted to use it!
Robin Woolman
We Turn into Birds
She’d always been convinced
that we turn into birds
when we die.
Perhaps the belief began when, in kindergarten, she watched
a butter-yellow chick hammer its way out of the egg
to lay panting in the warmth of a lightbulb; then dawdled home
to sit by her mother for the last time--the room too warm,
too dry; her mother’s nose too sharp, her breath
like soft shrieks.
Only once, did she share her belief--at a slumber party of pink girls.
They giggled and hit her with goose-feather pillows.
She never kept a pet bird or joined a flock of bird watchers—
fearing interrogation would smother her conviction--but should
a single bird happen to hop or swoop across her path,
she would nod politely and picture a certain man
walking his spaniel, or a certain girl
whose curls got caught in the rain…
How do I know this? I unlocked my mother’s blue diary,
the one hidden in a hat box. Now, as I sit
by her dying side, shadows of wings
pass at the window, and I see
how her hands curl into claws. Her shoulders
round, her stomach caves, her legs
crook, her whole body
molding itself to fit
the egg of her faith.
“Mama,” I whisper, “what bird will you be?
What bird will I become?”
Her eyelids flutter, her mouth twitches. She reaches
a mottled hand to grip my wrist like a falcon.
Then releases, no longer
tethered.
Poet’s Notes: "Wouldn't it be lovely if we turned into birds when we die?" my friend mused--which reminded me how my mother's body shrank and curled over the months before she died. Especially her hands.
About the Poet: Robin Woolman is a teacher of physical theater in Portland, Oregon. She loves backpacking the high country or strolling her neighborhood where experience finds paths into poems. Her works appear in Cirque, Deep Wild, Westchester Review, Oregon Poetry Calendars, Ecotheo, Certain Age, Songs of Eretz, and Tiny Seed.
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Sherry Poff
Rahab Remembers
--after the book of Joshua, chapters 2-6
They came by night, wild men from the desert,
in cloaks of darkness and dust, but their faces
engendered trust. In their hands
they held a scarlet cord.
Men of the rumored horde they were, moving across the thirsty
land, seeking a place of promise, and bringing their own.
The lies I told felt like truth, and my heart beat hard
beneath my own hand: I swear.
I tied tight the rope that set them free, raised my palm to the stars
and saw them go, wondering at my own story. Then the waiting
past a week, watching the east for a sign of their coming,
keeping always the scarlet cord in view.
Finally the tramping, and a cloud of dust--first at a distance,
and then just outside, hundreds of feet moving together.
The ground fairly shook. I felt the tremor in my fingers
resting on the cold stones.
I remember the trumpet, loud like a cry, followed swiftly by a shout.
My father and mother clung to one another as the walls fell.
At last, they came for us, took our lives in their hands
and saved us from destruction.
Poet’s Notes: Rahab is such an unlikely heroine, and yet there she is in the line of Jesus, showing that God honors and rewards faith. It must have been difficult for her to trust the Israelite men, but I believe God gave her unusual courage to help them and then to mislead their enemies. The deception, the lying–but then the trusting! Hers was a story of great inner conflict and drama. Psalm 90:17 is a prayer for God to “establish the work of our hands.” God used Rahab’s hands to protect His people, and then their hands to deliver her, His faithful servant. I wanted this poem to emphasize the work of her hands as she was used of God.
In the form of the poem, each stanza mimics Jericho’s falling walls with lines of descending length.
About the Poet: Sherry Poff writes in and around Ooltewah, Tennessee. She holds an M.A. in writing from The University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and is a member of the Chattanooga Writers' Guild and The Poetry Society of Tennessee. Her work has appeared in a variety of places including Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel, RidgeCut, Clayjar Review, Salvation South, Equinox, and Women Speak.
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John Guzlowski
Every Poem
Every poem has 3 parts,
the part that is you,
the part that is the world,
& the part that is God.
Writing a poem
is impossible
when 1 part is missing
or 2 parts are missing
or 3 parts are missing.
Some people ask me
how do I know God
is in a poem.
I smile
and point to the space
between the lines.
He is always there
in the emptiness,
waiting for a hand
to draw him home.
About the Poet: John Guzlowski’s poems about his parents’ experiences as slave laborers in Nazi Germany appear in his award-winning Echoes of Tattered Tongues. His most recent books of poems are Mad Monk Ikkyu, True Confessions, and Small Talk: Writing about God and Writing and Me. His novels include Retreat: A Love Story and the Hank and Marvin mysteries, reviewed in the New York Times. He is also a columnist for the Dziennik Zwiazkowy, the oldest Polish newspaper in America.
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Vali Mitchell
Beaded Steps
Our Father,
thou art far, and near,
powerful presence,
ever vast, ever listening.
Some have
beads to count the
steps we take back home,
bead by bead,
heart by heart.
If I’d been brought up using beads
I’d use them now,
counting my way to you.
Vali Mitchell
Now I Get the Book of Job
Job was not patient nor was he calm.
Nothing was soothing, and no healing balm.
Yet faithful, he stood and vowed not to leave
Continued to plead, refusing to grieve.
Then family was taken, his life stripped to dust,
Each new wound felt crueler, and wholly unjust.
Faith shaken by anger, and totally lost,
Regretted his birth, lamented the cost.
He argued with God while pleading reprieve,
Still stayed ever waiting, while wanting to leave.
He leaned on his faith, continued to pray.
The miracles came, but not right away.
When anguish and sorrow broke through my door
I faced the same choices, I had nothing more.
Victim or martyr or stay with the pain,
I prayed for a miracle, again and again.
Then I read Job, and decided to stay.
The miracle came.
But it wasn’t that day.
About the Poet: Vali Hawkins Mitchell, PhD, writes from her office across the street from the Honolulu Zoo, with morning backdrop vocals from monkeys, elephants, and tigers. She is an award-winning artist and has been published in numerous trade, professional and literary journals. She has authored cross-genre books including Emotional Terrorism in the Workplace, #ManyWomen:ManyVoices, Adjusted Parkour, and Quantum Poetry for Trauma Management. Her prose and poetry have been published in journals such as Sky Island Journal, Spank the Carp, of Rust and Glass, Star82Review, Heartland Society of Women Writers, Zoetic Press, Welter University Literature, and more. She has two free weekly email journals: 52 Weeks of Well-Being, and 52 Weeks of Affirmations, available at www.eapacific.com and her other website is: www.valihawkinsmitll.com.
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Donna Langevin
In the Tunnel for a Spinal MRI, I Cope with Tension
I close my eyes and silently recite the “Our Father” to the machine’s loud changing noises. I syllabicate “For/give/ us /our/ tres/pass/es” to what sounds like the rat-tat-tat-tat-tat of gun fire. I chug-chug it to a steam locomotive. Chop, chop it to a helicopter’s blades. I can’t keep up with the machine’s inexhaustible repertoire, so kill the remaining minutes by forgiving those who have trespassed against ME! I absolve my brother for calling me “coffin-bait”. I pardon the man who said my figure reminds him of a broom stick. I exonerate my icy father, and my children who mock threaten to strand me on an icefloe. I give a nod to the unchristian God of the Old Testament, and make peace with the creator of this machine. Released from the tunnel, I’m famished from skipping dinner to get to this 9 p.m. scan. Instead of waiting for manna to fall, I head towards my favourite restaurant to order a bowl of snow-white tofu with black bean sauce, continue reflecting …
my spine’s corridor—
tunnel to those I have wronged,
the light of amends
Poet’s Notes: I enjoy writing Haibun because the tiny haiku contrasts with, enlarges the scope, or goes in a different direction from the larger prose part of the poem.
About the Poet: Canadian Donna Langevin’s latest poetry collections are House of Poems, (Wet Ink Press 2026) and Timed Radiance (Aeolus House 2022). Appearing in journals in Australia, Israel, India, and the USA, she won first place in The Banister anthology competition 2019 and in the Ontario Poetry Society Pandemic poem contest 2020. Winner of a second place Stella award, her play, Summer of Saints about the 1847 typhus epidemic was produced by act2studioWORKS at the Toronto Alumnae Theatre in 2022. A memoir/fictoire, A Story for Sadie was published by Piquant Press in 2023. Homeless City, a chapbook co-authored with Kate Rogers, was published by Aeolus House 2024.
Virga Cloud over a Dry Terrain; photograph by Robin Wooman
Feature 3: More Poets and Poems
Tension as Viewed Through the Lens of Poetry
Nancy Byrne Iannucci
Dense Frankincense
The word was born in France
in the late Middle Ages, marriage,
A Catholic sacrament—sacrament—derived from
A welding of the words oath and mystery—
A tradition in the Christian Church,
where couples pass through stained glass wooden doorways
into a fog of dense frankincense.
He crossed over once
with another woman.
A traditional man who stands for the anthem with hand on heart,
A Christian man who crosses himself when he passes cathedrals.
A military man with USMC tattooed in Italian colors.
Italy, the home of the Vatican, where the pope lives and prays,
A place that made him cry last spring
when our feet blistered from the cobblestone pilgrimage.
A man whom I love,
but avoids the word like a pestilence,
he doesn’t believe in it, says we don’t need it-
A man who stands for the anthem with hand on heart,
A man who crosses himself when he passes cathedrals,
A military man with USMC tattooed in Italian colors.
A man who says he has loved no other
As he loves me, yet won’t cross over
into the fog of dense frankincense.
About the Poet: Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a writer from New York—her work has appeared in Thrush Poetry Journal, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Eunoia, 34 Orchard, Maudlin House, and San Pedro River Review. She is the author of four chapbooks and is a two-time Best of the Net nominee. She was also short-listed for the 2025 Poetry Lighthouse poetry prize. When she is not writing, she's roaming the fields near her home in upstate NY or playing with her three cats: Nash, Emily Dickinson, and Rocky -- Web: www.nancybyrneiannucci.com Instagram: @nancybyrneiannucci
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Tyson West
Borderline
I love to linger in the blurred frontier
twixt nymphs draped darkly and the sun's pure light
I ponder in my heart how feelings quite
grotesque by day glow true when stars appear.
Do angels need the dark to voyage here?
Or do these dreams flash wild hormonal flight?
I pause to minuet the blurred frontier
twixt shapes draped darkly and old Sol's stark light.
To my left brain this fog would quickly clear
a chemical event―the right's queer sprite
adores these magick creatures of the night.
Both sides bond as they spin this sacred sphere
my soul's made whole in this obscure frontier
twixt shapes draped brightly in the night's dark light.
Poet’s Notes: I occasionally have very vivid dreams set in surreal and ambiguous landscapes. I may see sirens on the moor or find myself lost in some haunted castle built with angles in alien geometry. Such dreams, and my feelings about them after waking, can inspire poetry. Form poetry such as rondels, sonnets, rondeaus, and bref doubles are the right size and medium to convey images and feelings surrounding such dreams.
About the Poet: Tyson West has published speculative fiction and poetry in free verse, form verse and haiku distilled from his mystical relationship with noxious weeds and magpies in Eastern Washington. He has no plans to quit his day job in real estate. He was the featured USA poet at Muse Pie Press from December 2019 through December 2022.
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Becky Parker
Essence of Whiskey
I perch on an old bench swing,
a periphery.
Geese are flying-drafting
the Tennessee breeze
at Harrison Bay.
Fish are cavorting in the
moving lake.
They do not know that
I thrum with anxiety
over recent events
that have polluted
my inner well.
How I envy the trees
as they drink into their essence
the brilliant whiskey sky.
Plant my soul in the middle
of this tranquil scene
where tensions fade into mist earth,
and I will bloom the
song of the trees
as they anchor the Carolina wren
on their knobby limbs,
whispering sweet nothings
through curled roots to the wild irises
that hem the edge of the river.
Even the white tailed deer
graze in freedom;
breathing deep
of the Earth under
the brilliant whiskey sky,
and eventually,
so will I.
About the Poet: Becky Parker is an award-winning writer who is published in Spirit Fire Review, Agape Review, Sweety Cat Press, Yellow Mama, Appalachia Bare, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, the Rye Whiskey Review, Pulse, the Green Shoe Sanctuary, Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, Amaranth Journal, Spire Light, Avocet, Mackenzie’s Publication, Salvation South, Heart of Flesh, Mildred Haun Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Dog Throat Journal, 10x10 Flash Fiction, and others. She is the founder of Briar Haus Writes.
Editor’s Note: See Becky Parker’s interview with Editor Charles A. Swanson on the “Our Staff” page of the journal.
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Mantz Yorke
The Journey
1: Away from
Committed to his faith, he’d understood
he would someday need to flee
or risk arrest by agents of the state.
Late at night, the message:
GET OUT NOW. THEY’RE COMING.
SWITCH OFF YOUR PHONE.
He knew the rugged terrain well
from youthful explorations.
Dressed for cold
and carrying the survival kit
he’d packed long ago,
he set off in the dark beside a rivulet,
putting down a scent for pursuing dogs,
then paddled back to the main stream
to scramble up its bouldery flow
till he reckoned he’d gone far enough
without leaving his scent.
He moved at night
and hid in caves during daytime, afraid
he’d be spotted by drones.
Three mornings on,
protected from aerial eyes
by an inversion’s overnight fog,
he completed the steep ascent
up the valley’s shattered slabs.
He’d not have made it
to the boundary arête
but for a narrow ledge
that saved him from a hundred-foot drop
when a rock underfoot gave way
just below the top.
2: Towards
Now in dazzling sun, he looks back
in silent farewell to what he’s left for good,
his shadow, a halo around its head,
stretching stilt-legged across the fog.
He turns and begins the long descent
towards the green-gold valley far below,
drawn on
by the pealing of distant bells.
Poet’s Notes: The spur for this poem was political and religious intolerance towards an unfavoured faith. In some countries people are persecuted for professing their particular faith, to the point that survival requires flight to a more accommodating land.
About the Poet: Mantz Yorke is a former science teacher and researcher living in Manchester, England. His poems have been published internationally. His collections Voyager and Dark Matters are published by Dempsey & Windle, and No Quarter by erbacce Press.
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Patricia Hope
Autobiography of Adam
After Ansel Elkins
Wearing nothing but a fig leaf
I followed her to the tree,
watched her pluck a red orb
from the branch, so shiny
you could see the devil’s
glee reflected there.
Go ahead, she said. It will
enlighten you, make you
smarter, make you understand
why we are here.
I am content with things as they are,
yet there is something about the way
she holds the apple up to the light.
I put it to my lips, take a bite, and know
immediately why you can never
experience that pleasure again.
Looking back, I shouldn’t have closed
my eyes, for when I opened them,
all I could see was her deceit. I hid
with the serpent, both of us sliding
belly first through the tall, slippery grass.
About the Poet: Patricia Hope’s award-winning writing has appeared in Tennessee Voices, Anthology of Appalachian Writers, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Quill & Parchment, MockingHeart Review, Artemis, Guideposts, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Bluebird Word, Pigeon Parade Quarterly, Mildred Haun Review, Liquid Imagination, American Diversity Report, and many others. She has edited several poetry anthologies -- Remember September Prompted Poetry and In God's Hand. Born and raised in Appalachia, she lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
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Clayton Spencer
Strange Angel
In the desert,
where I have never been,
shadows, like ink blots,
press themselves across indifferent rocks,
while here in the yard, at home— my body,
my house on the hill—
many helicopter seeds
have flung themselves onto the ground.
The cardinals as red as
cardinals peck at them,
curling and uncurling their little necks.
I think g-d must smell cathartic,
like burning paper
covered in dark blue ink.
With the good knife,
I slice the eyes
off of small potatoes
the color of beach sands in winter light,
and it is magnificent;
it does not change my life.
For this obstinate golden peel
choreographing the day’s last breaths,
I am grateful.
I should try this out
more often,
gratefulness.
And more time by the window.
And very, very still
About the Poet: Clayton Spencer is a poet from Southeast Kentucky. His debut chapbook, Concerning the Service, was a winner of the 2024 Beyond Words Chapbook Prize, published by Beyond Words Press. His work can be found in The Southern Humanities Review, Appalachian Places, and elsewhere. Clayton serves as Youth Literary Arts Outreach Coordinator at the Hindman Settlement School in Knott County Kentucky.
Priest Joins a Couple's Hands in Marriage; from a 14th Century Manuscript; public domain
Feature 4: Delightful! More Poets and Poems
See How These Poets Have Considered the Theme of Tension
April J. Asbury
Assurance
Nothing certain, except death and taxes and surprise
that is no surprise: loss of health, loss of love,
loss and loss again. The mice gnaw
my mother’s red satin suit, photos bleach
in sun and crinkle in damp, book glue
crumbles to free yellow pages. Foxing
freckles the pastel ballerinas posed,
en pointe, on my bedroom wall.
Nothing endures--except this ache--not bone
nor steel nor mountain. Let’s throw open the window,
shout and wail to the empty streets. I was loved!
Call their names, tell their stories, bare their lives,
electric and writhing, more than dust,
dry flowers, and thread-rotted quilts.
Let the listeners startle.
Let them wonder, let them clutch
their staggered hearts. Truth lingers
longer than my echoes last.
April J. Asbury
Mama Lays Down the Law
Now stop right there! The Bible don't say,
"Blessed are the mighty." Other folks
ain't as strong as you, don't got your mama
and your daddy, don't sleep in a soft bed
in a nice house with full cupboards, don't get
fine things every year for Christmas.
You ain't Goliath--and if you were,
David still gonna come along. Bigger
don’t mean better, don't mean you
gotta squash somebody like they're a bug
done run up your ankle.
Mind your manners, now, and behave
like you got some raising. One day
you’re gonna stand where I stand, one day
you’re gonna look at the child you love
and wonder, Lord, Lord, has all my pain
and all Your glory come to meanness?
Poet’s Notes: "Mama Lays Down the Law" is a poem I've revised repeatedly for more than ten years. The poem was awarded an "Honorable Mention" in the Poetry Society of Virginia contest in 2024; the category was for a "Strong Point of View." The older I become, the more I feel Mama's frustration with her loved ones, the tension between the world she envisions and the casual, "justified" cruelty she witnesses every day.
About the Poet: April J. Asbury teaches writing and literature at Radford University. She co-directs the Highland Summer Conference, a one-week writing workshop that brings Radford students and community members together with guest writers from the Appalachian region. She earned her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Spalding University and her M.A. from Hollins University. Her poetry and fiction appear in Artemis Journal, Still: The Journal, Gyroscope Review, and The Anthology of Appalachian Writers. Woman with Crows, her first poetry collection, is available on apriljasbury.com.
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John C. Mannone
Catenary
There’s grace in the way
a telephone line drapes
between two red cedar poles
when the sky is on fire
with all that buzz in the wires
conversations between lovers
their heavy words pulling down
the line between them. Straight
talk is always arced with good
intentions. The mathematics:
differential equations
dropping out of vectors
from Newton’s physics
is always easier to solve
than the calculus of love.
A telephone wire
uniformly distributed
in mass will sag when hung
by its ends. It’s hyperbolic
of sorts under its own weight
but if exaggerated words coursing
there — some heavier than others—
then there will be a different shape
to wisdom: parabolic —the story told
may cause the line
to break, the heart to spill
all of its unsaid words
hidden in the static hiss
of silence.
Poet’s Notes: There’s tension as metaphor using a strung telephone power cable and the fragility of personal relationships leading to lost love.
About the Poet: John C. Mannone’s Christian-infused work appears in Windhover, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, Spirit Fire Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Poetry South, Artemis, Windward Review, and others. Awarded the prestigious Jean Ritchie Fellowship (2017) in Appalachian literature, he has six chapbooks* and five full-length collections, including the Weatherford Award-nominated Song of the Mountains (Middle Creek Publishing, 2023) and the 2025 Tennessee Book Award finalist, Sacred Flute (Iris Press, 2024). He’s a retired professor of physics living in East Tennessee.
* Includes the free, self-published chapbook, Holy Week Poems:
https://jcmannone.wordpress.com/published-collections/
https://www.facebook.com/jcmannone
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Linda Vigen Phillips
Bedewed
The Israelites scorned it.
Gideon tested it.
Solomon sang of it.
Moses blessed Jacob with its powers.
Psalms and Proverbs
proclaimed its healing touch.
Do you—every leaf, every root
every green thing—celebrate
this droplet of life,
this transfusion that transpires
in your presence every morning?
Try as I will, I fail to absorb the sacred moment.
I must change my soaked shoes
after feeding the birds
and it's too wet
to cut the lawn.
And yet,
I want some.
Linda Vigen Phillips
Hanging in Dawn
Tribulation brings perseverance
though it's easy to deny through
the thickness of night, when it's long
and it's cold and the beauty of bare branches
must rely on harsh incandescence
to be revealed—
the cheap reminder of the light of man
not God.
But wait, wait in the blackness,
perhaps the kitchen table
or the chair near a window;
wait with owl eyes
set towards towering trees—
would that you be so endowed.
Wait not in vain, but with that promise
of proven character.
Watch for the illusory moment
when inky-black first fades to deep indigo
through thin, lacy limbs.
There is now the urge to slow down
what had just been interminable,
to hang in the dawn all the day.
There on the canvas of fresh sky
is the hope that does not disappoint.
Poet’s Notes: C. H. Spurgeon’s little “Cheque Book of the Bank of Faith” has been a main source of inspiration and morning meditation for many years. It was within those pages that I first encountered the word “bedewed.” I love how it sounds rolling off the tongue, but more importantly, how it feels as it saturates my soul with God’s grace. As for the dawn, it’s a good day when I can hang in it.
About the Poet: Linda Vigen Phillips is an award-winning author of two Young Adult verse novels, Crazy and Behind These Hands, and an adult poetry chapbook, Thoughts at Crossings. Her poems have appeared in numerous literary journals including The Texas Review, The California Quarterly, The Christian Century, and The Clay Jar. She and her husband live in Savannah, GA.
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Wendy Howe
Sediment
What makes the morning cool and gray, sprinklers
rinsing the grass and light settling on the shoreline of dawn,
gives one peace of mind
or its haunting.
Lawn chairs are folded, neighbors asleep, all shadows
non-human except mine -- and still, I hear someone
coughing. A low, smoker's cough. The sound familiar
but you're away on business --
a long stretch of continent and time. I'd say somewhere
on a twilit bridge with trees -- watching instinct move
wild swans along the river. Chess pieces
with no opponent
just questions of strategy. How to win back that share
of tolerance we've lost within the last
few months. But not love (which never left). Listen, the wind
strikes something briskly, mountain shale to ignite the sun;
and somewhere you strike a match. The moment flares, a last look
as willows drag the water for deeper thought
and I hear more coughing --
or maybe the sky
clearing its throat of daylight's silt.
Poet’s Notes: I wrote this poem from my own experience and perspective on marriage. My husband was often away on business trips and during his absence, I found solace in my garden and meditation. I came to certain conclusions that are inferred in this poem. Tension is a part of a loving and enduring relationship. When together, the tension often builds and reasons become overshadowed by momentary frustration, anger or the demands of everyday life. However, when people are apart for a certain period of time, solitude and quietness invoke reflection and more of a willingness to understand what happened. The distance between partners can also heighten the awareness of each one's presence; and certain nuances in their character or habits haunt the moment with a sense of intimate closeness. In this scenario, both man and wife are connected by a deep love and a need to lessen the strain with more tolerance and observation. Clarity comes with patience; and once the sediment or (messy debris of conflict) is cleared away, there is hope for new beginnings.
About the Poet: Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. Landscapes that influence her writing include the seacoast and high desert where she has formed a spiritual kinship with the Joshua trees, hills and wildlife spanning ravens, lizards and coyotes. Over the years, she has been published in the following journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Songs of Eretz, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal, The Winged Moon, Ekphrastic Challenges, The Orchards Journal, The Linnet's Wings and many others including several anthologies. Most recently, her work has been featured In Crow and Cross Keys, The Otherworld Magazine, and Eye to the Telescope.
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Brendan Dawson
The Immiscible Us
We are an immiscible blend
But who thought we could last so long
This chemical bond between us
Or better yet
The magnetic force pushing us
We naturally want to separate
Because of how we both participate
It's in our molecular make up
The way we shake up
Although it took years
Exploring our fears
Sorting our differences
Finding what brought us together
Remember how we met
In our past
When it was just
You and I
When it was just
In our past
Remember how we met
Finding what brought us together
Sorting our differences
Exploring our fears
Although it took years
The way we shake up
It's in our molecular make up
Because of how we both participate
We naturally want to separate
The magnetic force pushing us
Or better yet
This chemical bond between us
But who thought we could last so long
We are an immiscible blend
About the Poet: Brendan Dawson is an American-born poet and writer based in Italy. Brendan writes from his experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time serving in the military and journey as an expat.
Old Time Summer House Made of Shrubbery; Picture by Charles A. Swanson
Feature 5: Still More Poets and Poems
Tension Is Real and Present in These Poems
James Young
Chapel once the beatitude
Upon the going back
to the village chapel,
that beatitude of old ladies,
their quiet reassurance
of having pierced the veil,
We asked the deacon what is God?
And he said God is love.
We asked the deacon what is love.
And he said love is God.
Then we all walked away.
Now the chapel has a bramble collar,
a thorn crown, bleeding down upon its shoulder.
Grass grown steps
and a rusty handrail.
“No entry”
Cannot go inside – God forbid!
But the conspirator crack said look,
see the organ,
cadaver white in a dusty shroud.
In a rictus of bared teeth, a sneer
where once a wood stained veneer
reverberated to the hymns, and where
cold bums sat hard,
attending the sermons
with a wrinkled brow.
Is that all this stone box is reduced to?
Oh, this bloody congealed dust,
trespassing on our prayers,
our kicking and flailing at the jungle
of weeds that did fall on stony ground,
and yet have grown to choke the charity,
the swirling veils of the old ladies,
who held our hands
in the snow-light walking home.
How can a chapel become deconsecrated?
Even on the cross the cry of “why?” was suffered.
I leave my shadow to keep watch over
my memories. To call me back should
any of the congregation return.
Piercing the veil – as they say.
To flow with spectral fingers pointing
to the past.
Then I must and will return,
and on our knees
we will sublimate into the billowing dust
as our pasts go crumbling down.
Listen, listen!
They are singing in the Cymanfa Ganu.
Dear God, why did you let this chapel die?
Ask the deacon, why did you walk away?
Poet’s Notes: This poem is written from personal experience ~ all my Sunday school days were in our local Congregationalist chapel in Pentrechwyth, a small village just outside of Swansea Wales UK. It was sad to revisit the chapel after it was closed and find it in such a dilapidated condition ~ hence this poem the tension it brought to my memories of my happy days worshipping there
About the Poet: Jim Young is an old poet writing from his beach hut on the Gower peninsula Wales, UK. He has been widely published in many print journals and also online
**********
Sean Whalen
The Prodigal Leaves Again
Well, mom, I did promise
I would never leave
a promise unbroken.
She stares at him over the lip
of the Perkin’s coffee cup
her reflective eyes distort
in the skim of oil
a faint fog blurs her bifocal lenses
the black cloth napkin at her elbow
holds the cutlery tight
the golden bow unsevered
the cubes in his glass moan
glacial creaks and groans
the crack of eggs
sizzles in the kitchen
loud as a jet engine
bacon explodes on the grill
nothing can be heard
over the crash of trays
and ewers smashing
to the floor
the patronage wait
breathless for their orders
as still holding his eye
she sets the cup down
with a gentle clink
precisely within
the saucer’s
recessed ring
Poet’s Notes - Even though these characters are my creation, I can't honestly tell you what is causing the tension between them. I expect there's a history of parent/child control and betrayal, expectations met or unmet, love mixed with disdain. We observe, but our observations are flawed by ignorance of facts, and skewed by our own experiences. All I can hope for this mother and son is they continue to engage, though it may be painful and uncomfortable.
About the Poet: Sean Whalen is a retired health and safety professional from Pilot Mound, Iowa. He mitigates tension by writing, spending time with family, and by being outdoors. He received his MA from Iowa State in Creative Writing. Recent poems have appeared in Smoky Blue, Unbroken, New Feathers, Thimble, Gyroscope, Songs of Eretz, Canary, Men Matters On-line Journal, and Naugatuck River Review (semifinalist - narrative contest), and are forthcoming in Eastern Iowa Review, Floating Acorn, Chiron, and Last Leaves.
**********
Sharon J. Clark
Who am I talking to?
The conversation begins
not with hello, how are you?
Instead, a formal address
Father God.
But then silence falls.
Father. God. Two in one
Am I talking to God? Or Father?
And if prayer is a two-way conversation
when I hear your voice,
how will I know which aspect of you is speaking.
Father. I think of my own very human dad.
Kind when present. More often absent.
Would I recognise his voice if I heard it today?
He’s been gone so long.
His absence ever present.
I miss him.
God. How can I even begin to understand you?
What voice might I hear?
Is your accent one I would recognise?
Or do you have a unique divine tone
edged with thunder like the bass pipe of a church organ
A tone that reverberates through my body.
Through my soul. So I know without doubt
you are the Lord Almighty speaking.
Father God – I begin again – bless me today.
May I get a good assessment at work.
May I not join the gossip of colleagues in the office.
May I be good and kind like Jesus.
May I know you are with me.
As Father, not just as God.
I feel so alone.
Father. God.
Are you there?
About the Poet: Living in Milton Keynes, England, Sharon J. Clark has been published in various anthologies and online literary magazines, including Songs of Eretz, Still Point Arts Quarterly and Blink Ink. She has published two poetry collections and a collection of mystical short stories. She also publishes a weekly Substack newsletter called Looking to the Horizon that regularly includes her poetry.
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Abraham Aondoana
Loaves
The miracle, I think,
was not only that the bread was multiplied,
but that a child was willing
to give up his lunch.
Five loaves, two fish--
a meal small enough
in one pair of hands to be carried,
yet large enough
for God to begin with.
I imagine the boy watching
as the basket returned
again
and again
and again,
still heavy.
Did he laugh?
Did he count the pieces?
Did he understand
that heaven often starts
with what we release?
I bring so little--
fragments of patience,
a faith that flickers
in difficult weather,
songs half-sung.
Still, Christ receives them
without weighing their size.
This is what I forget:
God has never needed profuseness,
only openness.
And probably the greater miracle,
is not that thousands fed,
but that the Giver of everything
chose to need
a human offering first.
So today I place
my small bread before Him--
time, attention,
the willingness to trust.
What leaves my hands
never looks like enough.
What returns
always is.
Poet’s Notes: “Loaves” is rooted in the Biblical account of the feeding of the five thousand (John 6:1–14), particularly the quiet yet profound offering of the child who gave his small meal.
In John 6:9, Andrew tells Jesus:
“Here is a boy with five small barley loaves and two small fish, but how far will they go among so many?”
I am honored to be included in a journal that uplifts faith-centered writing with such care and clarity.
About the Poet: Abraham Aondoana is a writer and poet. He is a recipient of Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop 2026. His poem was shortlisted for Interwoven Anthology (Renard Press). His works have been published in Kalahari Review, The Philly Chap Review, raven cage zine, poem alone, Prosetrics Magazine, Rough Diamond Poetry, The Cat Poetry Anthology, IHTOV, The Literary Nest, Ink Sweat and Tears (UK), Rogue Agent, Ink in Thirds Magazine, Writing on the Wall, Alien Buddha, Blasphemous Journal, Rust Belt, and elsewhere.
**********
Emma-Jane Peterson
Taming The Clown Show
The swirl of circus chaos fills my mind.
How dare this band of clowns juggle
my thoughts so carelessly to and fro.
To them, it’s a game—the menace,
the humor—until the ringmaster arrives,
centre stage, cracks his whip, restores order.
And as I soak in the Word, harmonize spirit
with Spirit, tranquillity lights within me,
an ease never found in a bottle of pills.
For a while, I breathe. But, too soon, a clown car
skids in, horn tooting. Are my tormentors
real, able to crush truth. Or painted imposters.
I cry out and their orange-wigged heads bow
to the ringmaster’s raised arm. The crowd
ceases clapping. Today’s show has ended.
The pointed finger has, once again, lifted the curtain
through which outsized shoes must trample…
vanish from floodlight, disrobe their whirlwind.
Poet’s Notes: In this poem, I imagine our Heavenly Father as the ringmaster, whose authority the clowns must obey. I have friends who wrestle with spiralling, negative thoughts which trip them up, like the clowns’ knock-about banter. They live with the tension of believing lies or receiving an endless flow of peace from the Holy Spirit. At the end, the clowns are just performers who are sent off-stage. Truth has the victory—even if there’s often another skirmish to follow.
About the Poet: Emma-Jane Peterson lives in the UK. Her poems are published in BoomerLitMag, Calla Press Journal, The Clayjar Review, Metphrastics, London Grip, Paddler Press, Pure in Heart, and The Windhover, among others. She is the co-author of a book of children’s Bible stories (Parragon).
**********
Wilderness Sarchild
What Meets The Eye
Twice I have witnessed the winter aftermath
of a coyote chase: Frightened deer running
onto thin ice, crashing through.
Do not assume I am only horrified,
this spectacular life and death encounter.
My dog died in my arms. We buried
her out back and bring offerings
of meat to the place of her bones.
Do not assume she is gone. In the dark I still tiptoe across
the living room floor, careful not to step on her sleeping spirit body.
The nursing home staff lost my mother’s dentures,
found someone else’s to insert into her mouth,
making her unrecognizable in the casket.
Do not assume that was really my mother in the pine box
at the Jewish cemetery. I found her wandering in my dream.
When my grandmother died of a heart attack over mop and pail,
I put my grief aside for years until I I saw her doppelgänger
in a Russian movie that took place during the pogroms.
I ran into the bathroom sobbing.
Do not assume that I abandoned her again.
She often visits my poetry and prayers.
My own death is coming closer.
Not now, Not yet,
I dictate as if I am in control.
Do not assume I am resisting my own demise. When
the time comes I plan to sing as I slip through the veil.
About the Poet: Wilderness Sarchild is a poet, playwright, psychotherapist, certified facilitator of therapeutic psychedelic journeys, lay UU worship associate, and a grandmother of six awesome young people. She is the author of a poetry collection, Old Women Talking, and the co-author of the play, Wrinkles The Musical. Wilderness is currently working on a new poetry manuscript with the working title, Practice Dying. Her poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, and have been featured on local public radio and at local libraries.
Wilderness writes poetry as a way of making sense of a world that is determined to break our hearts, and in her desire to find the sacred in everyday life.
**********
Wesley D. Sims
Beach Imprints
The beach mimics a slice of moonscape,
pocked with a museum of depressions,
prints from this morning's traffic—
shallow toe tracks of scavenging seagulls,
tiny clam holes in wash of receding waves,
tunnels of ghost crabs, their fortress of retreat;
paw prints of a dog, footprints of a child,
shovel scoops moating a sand castle,
and gullies where it's half washed away.
Other marks traverse the cratered beach—
bold footprints of couples strolling hand in hand
molding memories. And wide-track prints
of unlinked pairs unable to unravel their knots
of stress. A red flag should fly today to warn
of strong undercurrents, threatening conditions,
heavenly regions in turmoil.
A fresh storm has stamped its marks here.
Young woman’s lover declared independence,
thrust the dagger of news through disbelieving
ears, thickened throat, carving deep scars
in the innermost recesses of her heart.
She stumbles, seeing but not seeing cheerful
others imprinting the landscape, some on solid
ground, but others on shifting sand, a mirage
of solidness not yet washed away.
About the Poet: Wesley Sims has published five chapbooks of poetry: When Night Comes, Finishing Line Press, Georgetown, Kentucky, 2013; Taste of Change, Iris Press, Oak Ridge, TN, 2019; A Pocketful of Little Poems, Amazon, 2020; Where Saints Have Gone, Iris Press, Oak Ridge, TN, 2025; and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Maturity, Cyberwit.net, Allahabad, India, 2025.
He has had poems nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
His work has appeared in Artemis Journal, Bewildering Stories, Connecticut Review, G.W. Review, Liquid Imagination, Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel, Plum Tree Tavern, Proverse, Quill & Parchment, Novelty Magazine, Poem, Poetry Quarterly, Songs of Eretz, Time of Singing, The American Diversity Report, The South Carolina Review, Word Gathering, and several other journals and anthologies.
Congregationalist chapel in Pentrechwyth, Photo by James Young
Feature 6: More Poets and Poems
Poets Write of Tension
Terri Lynn Cummings
Dalliance
Where do you belong in this brief autumn?
An offhand wind has stolen your face
and blown it beyond my memory
where I store images. Now
your allure is untended by my heart.
Suppose I stood where early snow
hardened purple peonies
and heard your steps on crusted grass.
Would time have plundered
all the meaning from our words
and our smiles, turned mannequin stiff
cracked on the edge of reflection?
Like sunning snow that slides from mums
the passion that once held us slipped away.
The wind will never waft backward
nor I journey where our minds
strolled freely together.
Poet’s Notes: “Dalliance” is a work of fiction. However, 'girl talk' during my college years is where this life lesson was learned.
About the Poet: Terri Lynn Cummings wrote three books of poetry published by Village Books Press--Tales to the Wind, An Element Apart, and When Distant Hours Call--before she became a member of the publishing team. Her work appeared in Oklahoma Humanities Magazine, Last Stanza Poetry Journal #22, Pasatiempo, and elsewhere. Cummings served as Co-Editor-in-Chief of Songs of Eretz Poetry Review and continues to serve on the Oklahoma City University Film & Literature Advisory Committee that brings Pulitzer and national poet laureates (including Great Britain and elsewhere) to Oklahoma City going on 26 years. In addition, she hosts monthly poetry readings and open mic in Oklahoma City. Terri now serves as Editor-in-Chief for two publishers--Village Books Press, which publishes the work of up and coming poets, and Woodvale Press, which publishes the work of other creative writers. She studied at the Creative Writing Institute and graduated with a B.S. in Sociology/Anthropology from Oklahoma State University. Terri continues to live in Oklahoma City with her husband and two dogs.
**********
Patrick Cabello Hansel
Joseph’s Story
Always old in the paintings,
standing watch to the side,
superfluous to the birthing,
spoken to only in dreams.
They paint him solemn and ancient,
leading the burro with young
Mary groaning atop; then
in the temple, silent and solid,
then drawn no more: Dead?
Captured? Abandoning the
beloved child? We needed a Son
of David for the birth of David’s
Lord. We needed his hands
on the saw and the lathe. Then
he’s gone, weaned from redemption,
a death unremarked.
But, imagine him young as Mary,
fifteen perhaps, crossing the border
illegally, hiding out in Egypt,
the ancient enemy. He picks up
spare work: cabinet, chair, coffin.
He learns to grow leeks and melons.
He does not advertise his existence.
In the night, with the child bedded
down by his sleeping spouse, he
stands at the doorway, waiting.
From the four winds of his heart,
silence comes wrinkling. He will
stand watch in whatever country
or home gives shelter. He will listen
Patrick Cabello Hansel
FOR LIV, ON HER 11th BIRTHDAY, PREPPED FOR HER 5th SURGERY IN 3 WEEKS
For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
Psalm 139:13
Healing is the right hand of God,
and even when we cannot stretch
our fingers, our skin seeks beyond
what space and time may hold.
Each fingerprint, each nail,
each glob of dirt under the nail
is fearfully and wonderfully made.
Dear Liv, your bones were woven
out of God’s own sacrum, a chunk
of loveliness, a sprig of tender
calcium that climbs through your
limbs like water climbs the xylem
of the oldest tree in the world.
Imagine: the water you drink
comes from the Mississippi,
flowing down the ages to reach
your lips, then meanders through
the miracle maze of your bloodstream,
showering each cell with a love
that words cannot express: it is
the very sigh of the Spirit. Each
of your breaths blesses the creator
of us all. Breathe in this wind,
breathe out your thanks. Water
always goes down to the low
places, and though your path
will be difficult and pain your
companion and guide, you are
bathed inside and out, by grace.
There is no wound that heaven
cannot hold, and right now
it is God’s hands that hold you
together; it will be God’s kiss
that wakes you up each day.
Poet’s Notes: These are a series of poems that juxtapose biblical saints with current struggles of people I have been blessed to know.
About the Poet: Patrick Cabello Hansel is a poet and retired Lutheran pastor, who served for 35 years in urban, bilingual congregations in the Bronx, Philadelphia and Minneapolis. His poetry collections are The Devouring Land, Quitting Time and his latest Breathing in Minneapolis, which deals with the challenges that city faced during 2020-2021. He has published poems and prose in multiple journals and won awards from the Loft Literary Center and MN State Arts Board. He is currently working on a novel, as well as serializing his third novella in a local newspaper. He is the curator of the ArtStart poetry series, and the founder of the Not Dead Yet Poets Society, which sponsor the annual Poetry and Jazz in the Holy Ground at the historic Pioneers and Soldiers Cemetery in Minneapolis. His website is: www.artecabellohansel.com
**********
Thomas Koron
The Glowing Lantern
CANTO I
In the dark of night, in the timberland,
The moon became obscured and overcast.
A burst of rain covered the ground so vast,
And through the late-night air the moisture fanned.
A fog began to form after the rain
Had trickled off, and soon it subsided.
Through the humid night, the strong wind guided
The lost traveler back home once again.
Upon his porch, the weary man now sat
Alone with his thoughts in a wooden chair.
The rain kept dripping from his unkempt hair,
After he had taken off his wet hat.
As the fog from the storm began to pass,
The traveler saw a faint light glowing.
He rose from his wooden chair, not knowing
Who it was that was standing on the grass.
As the glowing light shined upon the stairs,
Faint footsteps could be heard from close behind.
The glowing lantern lifted and defined
The features beneath the stranger’s gray hairs.
The stranger’s old face shimmered in the light,
As he walked closer to the weary man.
The stranger wore an old jacket of tan,
And as he approached, the lantern grew bright.
The traveler’s eyes began to grow wide,
As the stranger walked to the other seat
At the table. He looked down at his feet,
As the bright lantern dangled near his side.
CANTO II
The stranger now asked if he could sit down—
The other man’s head then began to shake.
The traveler then felt fully awake,
As he looked at the stranger with a frown.
Once the stranger sat down at the table,
He placed the glowing lantern between them.
The stranger then dried his hands, which were numb,
As the rain kept dripping from the gable.
The two men sat in silence for a while.
Neither of the men were willing to speak.
The traveler wiped a tear from his cheek,
And kept quiet with no trace of a smile.
The stranger looked over at him and said,
“I have walked a long journey, just the same
As you have. Although, you don’t know my name,
I am here to speak of your days ahead.”
“Who are you?” asked the traveler weary,
As a strange sense of shock overtook him.
The stranger removed his hat by the brim,
And stared off into the night so dreary.
“A man who has once walked your walk before,”
Replied the stranger, as his face grew long.
“Learn to forgive those who have done you wrong,”
He said, as his eyes pointed towards the floor.
Sometimes, in this world, some help is needed,”
Said the traveler, raising up his hands.
“For many years, I have roamed through these lands,
And never have my actions been heeded!”
CANTO III
The eyes of the two men then raised and met,
As they looked at each other in the night.
The glowing of the lantern remained bright,
And their damp clothing no longer felt wet.
“Your efforts will soon begin to pay off,”
Said the stranger, as he began to rise.
He looked deep into the traveler’s eyes,
And suddenly cleared his throat with a cough.
“When I arrived here, you asked who I was,”
Spoke the stranger to the man still seated.
The lantern still kept the two men heated,
And the stranger stopped speaking with a pause.
“I did,” said the seated man with a grin,
As he extended his hand to his friend.
With their discussion coming to an end,
The stranger stood rubbing his bearded chin.
He reached over and gave his hand a shake,
Still not knowing what his reply might be.
“I once had been you, and you shall be me,”
He said, “I hope my advice you will take.”
“For some twenty years from this given date,
It shall be my image you will carry.
Make your days more increasingly merry,
And free your heart from the burden of hate.”
The old man took the lantern, and turning,
Waved goodbye to the young man on the porch.
The glowing lantern that served as their torch,
Left with the old man, no longer burning.
Poet’s Notes: This poem was written in loving memory of Andrew Thomas Koronkiewicz, who passed away unexpectedly on August 7, 2021.
About the Poet: Thomas Koron was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan, on May 19, 1977. He has attended Grand Rapids Community College, Aquinas College, Western Michigan University, Northern Illinois University, and the American Conservatory of Music. His previous literary projects include poetry, plays, short stories, and a novel. He currently lives in the Chicago metropolitan area.
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Charles A. Swanson
Naked
“Easier to rule a nation than a son”—
Chinese proverb
As if I am sitting in the optometrist’s chair,
and she is adjusting the lenses, saying, “Can
you see it better now?” I look again. I know
I’m looking through lenses: not just the Bible’s
own despairing story, but James Dickey’s, and,
oh, Marvin Hayes’s. The artist and the poet,
how they somehow conferred: This is what
I want to draw. This is what I want to write.
Did the poet Dickey say, I see a poem,
“Death of Absalom"? And I read his poem.
His image doesn’t clear for me, despite
the agony of Absalom. Instead, I see,
more sharply, Hayes’s interpretation,
Joab’s back. Perhaps Hayes dared to say,
Joab is the one I see. And thus I see
Joab’s naked back, bare to the waist.
Nakedness dominates the picture. And
the artist chose to leave Joab’s groin
below the bottom of the frame. Isn’t
pain often somewhere beyond our vision?
I see Joab’s corded back, the torso, the knots
of muscles overlaying spine and ribs.
I see arms at ready, a long-shafted dart
in one clenched hand, two other darts clutched,
desperate in the other hand for thrusting.
I see Absalom dangling in the limbed oak,
its branches myriad and tousled and twining
as Absalom’s fabled hair. I see the victim,
helpless before the tense, relentless warrior.
I am seeing what Hayes directs me to see,
and I keep wondering, “Why naked? Surely
Joab should be dressed for combat. Surely
he was not some savage roaming the woods?”
Does Hayes mimic the old masters, where
more than Adam and Christ were stripped?
Does Hayes play to our lust, the eroticism
of combat, of masculine figures fighting nude?
Or does Hayes imply what keeps tearing
at my heart, that Joab’s act is naked?
The lenses keep slipping, but I keep
seeing again David, David weeping
in the sight of all Israel, David not hiding
his grief, David shaming his troops who
championed him. David has begged
Joab to be gentle with his rebellious son.
He has entreated Joab, commander of his army,
to show mercy to the merciless, to choose
kindness over David’s kingship, to spare
the traitor. Joab knows what he is about, that
he will pierce Absalom through the heart,
and, thus, he will drive a dart through David, too.
I see Joab’s naked back. I see the moment
stopped as only the artist can freeze the frame.
I see, yes, I think I see, why Joab is ready,
ready in all his nakedness, to kill.
Poet’s Notes: Many years ago, the poet Don Johnson gave me a large and fascinating book, God’s Images: The Bible: A New Vision (Oxmoor House, Birmingham, AL, 1977). Poet James Dickey and artist Marvin Hayes collaborated to interpret through words and images many of the better-known Biblical narratives. I was surprised and amazed to receive such a prized book, for Dickey himself had inscribed it to Don. Each poem by Dickey is accompanied by Hayes’s art. Each of Hayes’s works was originally an etching worked into copper in fine strokes like cross-stitching. Although each etching is mesmerizing, the one that kept coming back to me over the years was that of Joab standing before Absalom, ready to assassinate him. I have tried to write about this troubling drawing over the years, and so the poem represented here pictures to some degree my own struggles. The larger story of Absalom’s betrayal, Joab’s act of murder, and David’s grief can be found in 2 Samuel 15-19.
About the Poet: See the "Our Staff" page for a biography.
Sunset from Chincoteague Island, VA; photograph by Gail Swanson
Feature 7: And STill More Poems
See How the Theme of Tension Unfolds
Howard F. Stein
The Grass Is Brown
The grass is brown,
Days are short,
The sun is low;
A stern north wind
Makes brittle stalks
Of once supple stems.
What I expect,
What I desire –
Green would always
Have its way.
Brown fields in fall
Are my despair,
So much yearning
For what is not,
Only disdain
For what is left –
I stand wintered,
Forlorn, bereft.
I only see
Skeletons of summer,
If I can imagine
Seas of green at all.
Each fall is like this –
After so many decades,
I should know better
By now.
Yet each year my prairie
Becomes stranger
To me.
I should have learned
My lesson in grade school,
But each year the old
Disbelief returns, as if
Autumn were the only season.
Wintered fields at rest
Are not dead –
They are waiting,
Holding on.
What if brown grass
Is not lack – but
Prairie in season,
Silent preparation
For spring’s return?
What if my desolation
Is but frightened conceit?
Poet’s Notes: This poem is my most recent of dozens of poems I have written over the past 45 years while immersed in the South Great Plains of Oklahoma, US, a land I fell in love with when I first moved here. This poem emerged from learning to see and think and feel anew about the seemingly “same” blanched brown prairie grass I had seen while driving throughout rural Oklahoma. What had for so long represented to me drab, lifeless, wintered straw suddenly, miraculously changed in character from dead, to resting, preparing, awaiting new life. When I began to write this poem (or the poem to write me!), I did not deliberately identify the theme of tension as part of the core drama. I only realized it as the poem emerged.
Maybe I had been wrong all along about late fall and winter: this ending was not final, but part of a transition in a cycle – if only I would notice. The word “reframing” is often used to characterize this cognitive shift in point of view. At best, it is a part truth, a small portion of an epiphany, a revelation, a transformation. Maybe, approaching my 80th year, I was not just a field of old, dead grass, but still had (have) some life, some future left in me. Maybe not the spring of youth, but a spring of ripeness.
The poem is, then, about the tension between clinging to a stereotype, and becoming open to re-vision, embarrassment, and even delight. During winter’s long siege on the prairie, brown grass stretches from horizon to horizon. Would this landscape of death last forever? I worried. I identified with what I had imposed upon it: my own sense of feeling dead. But, then, I came to welcome the surprise that, at least here, endings are prelude to new beginnings.
Howard F. Stein
Thoughts on Conducting Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony
Dedicated to the Memory of Otto Klemperer.
“The most important part of the music is not in the notes.” Gustav Mahler
1.Before our first rehearsal
Of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony
With a new guest conductor,
Orchestra members talked among
Ourselves “We have played
Beethoven’s Fifth so many times,
Under so many conductors, surely
We know this work better
Than anyone. Do you think he* thinks
He can teach us anything new?
Da-Da-Da-Dahhhhhh so it goes.”
In performance, he will first stand
On the podium, eyes scan
The orchestra, everything in its place,
Lift his arms, ready, set, go;
With small and grand gestures,
Eye contact and body movement,
He cues our entrances –
As if we don’t know them by heart.
For us, all repeat performances,
Impeccably executed plastic,
Even climaxes prepared, no surprises,
Masks of inspiration –
Who would guess this music
Was once fresh?
We play Beethoven Five for him, *
Like yet another run-through, know
Every turn in the road – most drivers
Speed like it’s a race, or a rapid sine wave.
Just keep moving on, four movements to go,
Then you can leave. Who would have thought
Beethoven Five could sound
Like a well-oiled machine?
One more Fifth under our belt,
Like brushing our teeth,
Now and then a new toothbrush,
Changing toothpastes from
Time to time, but the same strokes.
Most of the crowd won’t even notice;
At the end, they will go wild,
Thrill to his triumphant C major
Send-off, as the orchestra hammers away
Tonic-dominant, C major-G major-
And back again, as though to dispel
Forever the scourge of c minor. **
They will think he did it
All himself – our performance, his will.
No doubt the audience will
Call him back for several bows;
He will turn toward us,
Graciously motion for us to stand,
Accept the applause with him.
No doubt the music reviewers
Will praise his unique interpretation.
He will leave town for the next
Concert hall on his tour, where
The Fifth will play
Pretty much the same.
A few seasons from now, I await
Another guest conductor,
Another Fifth, another fossil.
2. . . .We all get surprised –
Sometimes –
you can tell it already
In his eyes, his voice,
A passion, bordering on devotion,
Long before he says a word
Or lifts the baton. We know
Something will be different this time –
Not performance, but revelation.
The same four notes will now
Pound their way, measure
Upon measure: da-da-da-dahhhhhh,
Tying everything tightly together
While holding us captive.
This conductor breathes life
Into every utterance, as
We play with such sustained
Intensity as to leave us breathless.
He knows Beethoven’s
Unbearable tension, does not
Shy away from it. The music’s
Grip holds him in its grasp.
He knows the secret of urgency
Is not speed but space –
The slightest holding back,
In the struggle with
And in c minor.
Da-Da-Da-Dahhhhhhh notes
That never give in, drive headstrong,
Appear in new forms, new moods.
c minor is siege!
Even the second, slow,
Movement in the noble key
Of A flat major, does not
Elude the taut-wire tone
With its inescapable
Four-note motif.
No tranquil pastoral stream,
This reprieve.
What is at stake in
Beethoven Five?
Key signature only?
What is the musical story
Behind the obsessively
Slammed notes?
Beethoven’s brutal father?
The iron chains of
Classical musical tradition?
Napoleon’s betrayal of Europe’s
Liberator to its Emperor?
Symbolism of the key
Of c minor?
The Fifth merges
The unyielding power of domination,
And rebellion against it
By the sheer momentum
Of defiance and resistance,
Machetes hacking their way
Through a recalcitrant rainforest –
But toward what destination?
This conductor understands
The hold the Fifth has on us.
I feel its tightness in
My arms, my neck, my gut,
My mouth, my eyes, no relief in sight,
Every muscle synchronized
With the music, to tear myself
Loose from shackles
That will not let go. In the music
My ears hear, and which has
Taken up residence in me,
I fight for my life. . .
Until . . .
Suddenly, the stranglehold certainty
Of c minor dissolves into mystery;
A hush falls, as c minor
Begins to transmute –
Into what? Slow, crescendo,
Interminable suspense,
Preparation? But for what?
Where is it headed? –
First a hint of tonic C major, but
Mostly dominant G major,
Until it becomes so swollen, C major erupts,
Bursts the prison doors
Of c minor into a confident
C major march of solid chords,
Utter release from the cruel
Sentence to c minor.
The wait, the terror, is over –
I no longer take short, hesitant
Breaths, hold them as long as I can;
Now, long, slow, deep inhale-
Exhale-inhale . . . Breathing
At last a joy, not dread.
The oppressive short-short-short-long
Blows give way
To scampering,
Playful, even bouncy,
Exuberant joy after
So much strife and dread.
Then . . . the Fifth’s ending!
Intrepid, as insistent in
Blazing away with C major’s radiance
As it was in raging in c minor at c minor’s
Death hold. “Couldn’t Beethoven have
shortened the triumphant conclusion
with fewer notes? Why so much repetition?”,
Generations of people have asked.
I respond that no note is superfluous
To celebrate such hard-won liberation
From c minor’s grip.
Listen! I ask them. Just listen!
To how it seizes you and
Carries you to the end.
Can there ever be enough affirmation
That tyranny has been overcome?
Tonic, dominant; tonic dominant …
Joyous hammer stroke after hammer stroke,
To establish unmistakable victory
Of C major over its adversary, followed
By endless C major chords to the finish.
No doubt left, the adversary has
At last been defeated. Then . . .
Silence . . .
3.After the music ends,
Stillness fills the concert hall.
The audience sits
Spellbound by the trance
Conductor and orchestra have created –
Even on the stage, no musician moves.
This Beethoven had transported them
To a realm which had no name
In space or time. Everyone could sense,
Though, that it was right. The journey
Had reached a destination it
Could not know at the beginning –
Though the conductor had
Memorized the score.
Eventually, one person in the audience
Begins to clap, then another, until
The concert hall erupts
In affirmation and gratitude,
Soon with standing ovation.
They call the conductor back
Time and again; he motions for
The orchestra to stand and share
The savor. One time
They refuse, insist that
He take a solo bow;
String players tap their bows
On the score, others join the acclaim.
Eventually, the audience
Breaks into rhythmic applause.
Finally, the conductor
Takes the concertmaster by the hand,
Leads the entire orchestra off stage.
The concert hall clears; the transformed
Return to the ordinary. C major cannot
Last forever; life erodes it like stone.
The old tyrant, c minor,
Cannot be banished. . .
When a future orchestra season
Programs Beethoven’s Fifth,
Everyone will be ready, wondering
Whether it will it be
Perfunctory or transform them.
I will enter the concert hall again,
Wait – hope for a Fifth taut
With tension, no promise
Of relief – then miracle.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
*I ask the reader’s indulgence and forgiveness for my obvious gender specificity, male, not female. Historically, conducting has been overwhelmingly male. This has changed in the last, say, twenty years. If I am a sexist, I am so inadvertently. I ask your forgiveness.
Of all the recorded and live Fifths conducted by Otto Klemperer, I suggest the following: YouTube: Beethoven Symphony No 5 in C minor Op 67 „Fate“ „Schicksalssinfonie“ Otto Klemperer New Philharmonia https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JOIWqoYMbA Live performance, New Philharmonia. (circa 1970). YouTube: BEETHOVEN Symphony No5 in C min Op.67 OTTO KLEMPERER Live performance. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhqZT-hPNoA&t=28s 1970. New Philharmonia.
Studio Recording: Beethoven - Symphony No 5 - Klemperer, PO (1959) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ulw4VV0pSZo 1959.
**Examples of other profound works in the key of c minor: Mozart c minor Mass; Mozart’s 24th Piano Concerto; Beethoven’s 3rd Piano Concerto; Brahms’ First Symphony; Saint-Saens’ 3rd Symphony; Bruckner’s 8th Symphony; Rachmaninoff’s 2nd Piano Concerto; Shostakovich’s 8th Symphony and 8th String Quartet.
Poet’s Notes: The immediate inspiration for this poem comes from the theme for this inaugural issue of Flowers of the Field: tension. Almost as soon as I saw the topic, my mind flew to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, a mighty work that should be the epitome of sustained tension and final release – but which is so often performed and recorded as a ho-hum “War Horse” or “Pot Boiler.”
For a work in which the Human Spirit (and Divine Spark) is at stake, I have heard it performed for decades as if nothing is at stake except getting through it. Clearly this piece of music has deep significance for me, a struggle from imprisonment in chains to ecstatic liberation. There are many profound recorded performances of Beethoven’s Fifth. For me, those of conductor Otto Klemperer personify the ideal the poem embraces.
Ever since childhood, I have longed to be a conductor – Mission Impossible for a host of biographical and practical reasons. Now at 80, nearly deaf and blind, the best I can do is to “hear” the Fifth in my head – as it should be, if I only could be its conductor.
About the Poet: Howard F. Stein is an applied, psychoanalytic, medical, and organizational anthropologist; psychohistorian; organizational consultant; and poet. He taught for nearly 35 years in the Department of Family and Preventive Medicine, University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center, Oklahoma City, OK, US. He is author, co-author, or editor of 35 books, 11 of which are books or chapbooks of poetry. His most recent poetry book is Standing in the Chaos (2024). He was Frequent Contributor to Songs of Eretz Poetry Review. He is Poet Laureate of the High Plains Society for Applied Anthropology, and Psychohistory Poet Laureate. He can be reached at hfs.dad@gmail.com
A small section of sheet music; photograph by Charles Swanson
Feature 8: Devotionals
Read How These Writers Consider the Effect of Tension in Our Lives
Emily Babbitt
Writing a Life Worth Living
“No discipline seems enjoyable at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.” —Hebrews 12:11 (CSB)
When writing a novel, one of the most important things to consider is tension—the internal and external forces challenging your characters. Without tension, there is no story.
In the same way, we cannot live full lives without tension. There are two types of tension everyone will experience in their lives: intentional and unintentional.
Intentional Tension
Working out. Trying something new. Stepping into a leadership position. These are all examples of pressure we put on ourselves in order to become better. The discipline required to start a new routine isn’t pleasant, but without discomfort, we do not grow.
Intentional tension can also help us build resilience, which softens the blows of unexpected challenges.
Unintentional Tension
Health diagnoses. Family tragedies. Layoffs. None of us wants to experience these things, yet they come for us all the same. In the moment, it is incredibly difficult to see how situations like these could be used for good, but as Christians, we can cling to the truth “that all things work together for the good of those who love God, who are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28, CSB).
By using tension, authors create stories worth reading. In the same way, we can write a life worth living by choosing to challenge ourselves and trusting that God will work all things together for good.
Prayer: Oh Lord, author of my life, give me the strength to respond with hope to the tension in my life. Help me to see challenges as opportunities for growth and to draw near to you. Amen.
About the Writer: Emily Babbitt is an author and blogger based in Central Virginia. Her short fiction has appeared in magazines, newspapers, online publications, anthologies, and literary journals, including redrosethorns, Heart of Flesh, and Jimson Weed. In 2024, the Virginia Writers Club awarded her a first-place prize for her essay "Forgotten Places" in its annual Golden Nib Contest. She blogs about family, religion, and creativity at EmilyBabbitt.com.
***
Kiyoshi Hirawa
The Suffering that Awaits (“And you, yourself, a sword shall pierce…” Luke 2:35)
What do you do when the tension is broken by a new and almost unbearably worse tension? Imagine the scene at the Presentation, Mary and Joseph hanging on Simeon’s every word as he cradles Jesus, their apprehension relieved by Simeon's blessing and prophesy–only to hear a devastating coda: a sword shall pierce Mary’s soul.
Centuries of translation have hidden how this new and infinitely crueler tension is illustrated (and remedied) with a single word: sword.
In the ancient world, there were many different Greek words for sword. One word was machaira–a dagger, an assassin's tool. But Luke does not use machaira when he describes how a sword will pierce Mary’s soul. There’s another Greek word, xiphos, denoting a longer, double-edge sword, a blade used to impale an enemy on the battlefield. Yet Luke does not use xiphos, either, when he translates Simeon’s prophecy.
Instead, Luke employs the word rhomphaia to describe the suffering that awaits Mary. A rhomphaia was a much longer, heavier, and curved sword greatly feared by the Greeks and Romans. The hilt featured additional length so it could be swung with two hands, splitting both shield and armor. If an enemy was swinging a rhomphaia down upon you, there was little defense; in that tensest of moments, one simply prayed for rescue, relying on a sōtēr, a deliverer, to either deflect the blow or miraculously heal the inevitably mortal wounds and pain.
Amidst the tension of Simeon’s new and ghastly prophecy, Mary neither panics nor weeps, but merely abandons herself to Divine Providence, trusting that she will ultimately be delivered from this future spiritual carnage, no matter the pain. Rhomphaiainvites us to contemplate how moments of great tension–and their swords of torment–are only relieved by great abandonment to the enduring and faithful Sōtēr.
About the Writer: Kiyoshi Hirawa is a poet, writer, and former police officer who was wrongfully terminated after reporting sexual misconduct and rape committed by fellow police officers. Hirawa’s work focuses on resiliency, hope, and providing a voice for the unheard, ignored, and overlooked.
Christ Church, Middlesex County, VA; photograph by Gail Swanson
Feature 9: More Devotionals
Tension undergirds these Devotionals
Karen Ulm Rettig
Celebrities
She spoke to us with elegance and poise and a winsome smile. Who would begrudge those designer gowns when she wore them so well? And what woman didn’t dream of looking so good in a hat? She fed our need for romance, clothed us in vicarious glamour, touched our hearts with a seeming innocence that let us forget, for a while, the ethical quandaries of day-to-day living. She gracefully merged the mores of motherhood with the enchantment of royalty, and when the fairy tale collapsed in misunderstandings and mutual infidelities, she assumed the mantle of victim, a lamb among wolves. Though her taste in men proved regrettable, she gave her time to charity, used her fame to fix our attention on the needy.
Her death shocked us. The press blazoned the story while newscasters amplified it in a babble of commentary. The paparazzi! The accident! The injuries! Shock gave way to lamentation. We followed the funeral, marveled at the flowers, shared in the heartbreak of those motherless boys, suffered the loss as if it were our own. She was a beacon, a soulmate, a saint!
In the midst of our cacophony of grief, a second woman died. She, like the other, gave her time to charity and was a beacon of mercy, but she got her hands dirtier. She had chosen to live in poverty, to be soulmate to the poorest of the poor, and though she had no children, millions called her Mother. Her passing made the front page and the evening news, but it was a minor refrain in our chorus of woe.
They died the same week. Had anyone paid attention, he might have found the timing significant. Had anyone tuned out the hubbub, she might have heard a tart observation on the nature of sainthood.
About the Writer: Karen Ulm Rettig graduated from college with a degree in Fine Arts. Although always an avid reader, she had no literary ambitions until her late 30s when a muse showed up. While she has never formally studied writing, Karen credits bookish
family members (one of whom is a professional editor) and the Cincinnati Writers’ Project poetry group with helping her to learn the craft of writing. She has had poems published in e-zines and anthologies, including Ekstasis Magazine and The Amethyst Review.
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Charles A. Swanson
The Container Called Art
And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter; so he made it again into another vessel, as it seemed good to the potter to make. Jeremiah 18:4, NKJV
I look for examples of artistic endeavor within the Scriptures. The reason I do is because I believe, at the core of my being, that God has given me the gift of poetry, and I want my writing to honor him, to be brushed by wings of the Holy Spirit. I’m so glad Jeremiah was directed to the potter’s house, to watch the potter as he shaped his art. I’m so glad that the potter was not satisfied with his first attempt, but saw that the thing he had under his hand needed revision.
Art, once it sets, is a finished thing. At some point, the poet says to his poem, I’m done with you. At some point, the sculptor lays down his chisel. The last nick has been nicked, and he dare go no further. At some point, the gardener says, the formal garden is laid out, the walks are placed, the boxwoods planted. Tending and weeding lie ahead, but the shape of the thing is completed. The clay is ready for the fire and the pot will harden beyond reshaping.
But what is the artist working for? Some vision in his mind. Some feeling in his heart. Some inspiration in his soul. It is a work of imagination. It is a work of need.
And he finds it is a work of life, that he can create something to pour his love into, to pour his anguish into. Thus, the grieving grandfather writes a poem for his little, lost granddaughter.
About the Writer: See the “Our Staff” page.
Red and Black Afghan; poinsettia pattern; photograph by Gail Swanson