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Showing posts from September, 2021

THAT by Michelle McDonald

THAT   That, which Gives each breath we take, Which we can neither save or fake. That, which Shines as gentle as a dove, Through the eyes of those we love. That, which Gifts us each new day, Delighting in our diverse, creative play. That, Omnipresent listening ear,  Which comforts us and calms our fears. That, which Lovingly clothes,  Every lily and fragrant rose. That, which Gives with loving hand, Without judgement, revenge or command. That, Eternal Grace,  Awaiting our surrender and embrace. That, which Encompasses All, The good, the bad, the great, the small. That, which with Unseen Hand,  Guides us through stormy waters to dry land. That, which Knows there's no mistakes,  Trusting life which gives and takes.  That, which Gives free will to all,  Watching great waves rise and fall. That, Essential Life itself,  Which in silent stillness can be felt.  That, without beginning or end,  Our own True Essence and Forever Friend.   Photography by Sofia Sundari  Michelle McDonald : I l

CLEAR VIEW by Renee Podunovich

  Clear View    Iceblue before sun crests, just a few flickers of saffron sail over the horizon line, possibility—               hush, wait in the quiet             for that luminosity, that moment when light finally lands on the winter fields; grasses bent, the weight of snowflakes, frost fringes their honeyed stalks, shimmers, shivers, swims in snow banks, sun-splashed.   I place myself in the center of my life once again, will let this warmth cover me too. I belong here, in the middle, centripetal and still I dance               with you, we are bright             like embers, like night stars             sparkling the black universe,             our hearts on fire, ablaze             with elation, vibrantly                       unburdened from all             that was let go.   I burned everything that blocked my clear view. Now, ash and fallow make space, an invitation, an opening.   Something new will grow here, and I intend to tend it well.                *   *   * (This poem f

AUTUMN SONG by Camellia Stadts

Autumn Song   The smell of cider in the crisp air, The songs of geese heading south, My desire to go with them, The gift of picking up and leaving;  Instincts leading the way.   But to follow them would mean No more smells of apples or  Sounds of dried leaves   Crunching under foot; The gift of the colors…   My eyes would miss Gold, red yellow, orange and brown, The crisp, tart taste of an apple  Straight from the tree would no longer Tempt my tongue.   After hiking through wooded land I sit on a stump, left from a fallen tree Too old to no longer stand. Looking around, knowing this is  Right where I belong.                        *   *   * (This poem soon to appear in the author's forthcoming poetry collection) Camellia Stadts is an artistic spirit who loves expressing herself via diverse creative mediums from writing and poetry, to painting, knitting, crocheting, and embroidery. She holds a Bachelor of Arts from Marygrove College in Detroit, where she grew up, which she obtained

REST by Michelle McDonald

Rest She learned to rest and not react,  instead of later regret and retract. So instead of surfing the passing wave,  she silently swam deep into a cave.  The cave was as it had always been,  silent, peaceful and serene.  She rested there to catch the vibe  of peace and calm and love inside.  So, when she spoke, her words were pure,  filled with love and patient endure.  And the wave returned to the Infinite Sea,  forgotten and passed into history. But instead of another wave to climb,  the calm remained for quite some time. She rested in this newfound joy  and sometimes saw waves passing by. Her joy deepened, how she wished it would last; although some waves still swept her into the past.    But things are different now,  for she knew her way home, to the silent cave beneath the foam.  She would rest there, deep within,  until she felt calm again. And when she felt ready, she would follow the sound  as the surface waves are once again found.  She now plays her part and does her best

LOST SONGS and SOLOIST by Jennifer Wenn

L ost Songs By Jennifer Wenn   Maybe the desire to make something beautiful is the piece of God that is inside each of us Mary Oliver, “Franz Marc’s Blue Horses”   Once I wrote songs, was young and didn’t know any better, aspired to an unreachable fantasy, to a person I couldn’t then be. Immature fragile tunes and gossamer words soon lost in a cacophony of mocking laughter from without and within, drowned out by blasts of seriousness reasonableness conformity, naïve notes distorted into an unending metronomic drumbeat of  analytics and logic and practicality, the songs shattered, scattered on the winds of uncounted delicate melodies never given voice, throats and souls strangled by fear and acquiescence.   Is that the end?  Divine spark forever sublimated or smothered?  Sometimes. But maybe, a lifetime later,  the quixotic urge returns unbidden, the primordial quest for beauty reborn, habit and convention cast aside and the fragments of long-ago dreams reforged with hard-won tools, per


T he pleasure of musing in solitude, feeling a divine connection, and the mirth that enters your heart and pleaches to your soul is matchless. The break of dawn as your eyes welcome the arrival of sun tickling your eyelids becomes another opportunity for you to resuscitate your collapsing hope, and start again. This poem is an outlet for t he sanctitude of that moment. The Bliss of a Prayer unfathomable ties from the heavens coil my soul as I gaze at the gilding sun flying higher after Fajr the traces of memory in tactile feelings rejuvenate as my mind undergoes a peculiar ataraxy my heart soars in the air of catharsis as I remember Allah is closer to me than my jugular vein I feel accompanied when not a soul is around me as I saunter in the downpour at midnight my eyes discern my essence in the blinding mist as I evanesce into that embracing abyss on the prayer mat, I feel I’m beyond everything  as my mind delves into the ecstasy of the Unearthly my thoughts swallow themselves into ob

THIS HOUSE by Susan Waters

T his poem a description of the house of the self. We contain many experiences, different selves; each one of us an individual yet we are all connected like beads in a necklace. I reference Psalm 139, a great favorite of mine. This House   This house, Sheaf of selves Liminal Papoose of care Confluence  Of memory   We, each, A necklace bead Light chamber                                                                                                                            Cross-hatching water Brief flare - Fearfully Wonderfully  Made   I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made  Psalm 139:14 Susan Waters  is a poet and contributor to  The Forgiveness Project , that shares stories of forgiveness in order to build hope, empathy and understanding. Susan has self published her first collection of poems  The Welcoming Table .  A new venture, an audio/visual presentation of her poem  Notes on a Pandemic  is available on YouTube. *For submission guidelines,  click here