Journey of the Heart

  Morning Flow  by Carolyn Chilton Casas A soft crescendo of birdsong  heralds first light through bamboo slats, and consciousness drifts forward.   The things to complete are many, but experience has shown  the day ahead flows smoother with the practice of silence,  and I choose to give myself this time.   Please connect with me, make me a clear and present channel of love, light ,  and restoring energy; it is an honor bestowed, a gift.   Warmth seeps from palms and fingers, breathing slows and deepens, toes tingle with energy. A shift transpires— no longer any desire to move, feelings of being held and cherished.   I am loved.  I am love.   This is how we are meant to be. Carolyn Chilton Casas   lives on the central coast of California, the perfect landscape for a love of nature, hiking, and playing beach volleyball. She is a Reiki master and teacher, whose favorite theme for writing is about ways to heal. Her ...

A Prayer by Kalindi Dinoffer My dear Krishna My lord My friend  My best friend  In my heart And all around me If only I wasn't so blind  The do's and don'ts  I'll be honest they often confuse  and bewilder me the ceremony and ritual  often make me feel farther from you not closer   Oh Krishna Oh Radha Oh dear Chaitanya  Oh Rama  So many beautiful  names  Maybe I've been thinking about it all wrong If you're the best friend of all then surely it saddens you when they forget you or when they pray only to ask for you  to solve their problems all the time   I mean sure of course you're all powerful  If I were to try  to put myself in your shoes I imagine it would feel lonely if people asked things of me all the time  without checking in to see how I'm doing  And love real love  is about giving  the word service  sometimes gets me if I'm being honest it sounds so formal like a master and serva...

Haikus by Barbara Anna Gaiardoni   between the pages of a book a violet - a hunch  * silver threads intertwine stories - swallows’ return * progress of the lilacs garden - his glasses     Barbara Anna Gaiardoni   is an italian pedagogist, author, doodler, ex-violinist and   former swimmer.  She has participated in national literary and poetic competitions and publications, and currently publishes Japanese poems in English on international trade journals.   Her passions include cooking, drawing, dancing salsa and walking in nature. Her motto is "I can, I must, I will do it". *For submission guidelines,  click here. *  

  So is Time:    An Elegy    by CLS Sandoval Curiosity stopped only by a burn or a cut   Questions unending for no reason other than to know   Playing touch and tackle football in ruffles and bows on the church front lawn   Riding the waves in the Pacific until lips were blue and toes were numb   We threw around the sands on the shore   You escaped through our fingers and toes     Lapping of wildflowers and honeysuckle in nostrils   Warmth of sun shining in hair   Dance of breeze encouraging lovers closer   Path only well enough marked for those who had ventured it before    Romance of youth and nostalgia   Droplets of you moistened our lips for first kisses     New York Minutes filled the calendar   Nominations and awards acceptances called   The dog guarded the window by herself more frequently   Movement transformed from fun to exercise   Food transformed from frien...

  A’sailin’ ‘T’would seem quite true I never was the captain of this ship, though in my youth I did believe in charting my own trip. But Master Time has made it clear how lowly is my rank. I’ve silver locks and aching limbs and soon I’ll walk the plank. One thing I’ve learned as days go by a‘sailin’ life’s rough seas: It doesn’t work to push against what comes upon the breeze. For when I tried to turn the tide, instead the tide turned me; the Sea of Life dictates for us in ways we can’t foresee. ‘T’is true that we are powerless to stop waves high and low, but we can choose to welcome both the pleasure and the woe. And so this ship does carry me through seas both sweet and tart. When I embrace my life, I live with full, contented heart.  ("A'sailin' " was published on Your Daily Poem in December, 2022.) Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as a poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a ...

Roots By  Lynn White   It’s said that you should remember your roots, remember where you came from, remember where you belong, anchored by your long tap root. But I have fibrous roots too, growing out strongly from the main tap. I have spread them out and put them down in many places, taken sustenance from them. They’ve been part of my growth, fed my main stem and its splits and branches. I’ve branched out from them and belonged in them all, all those places. And some rootlets have broken free and I’ve left them behind there no longer belonging to me. And I’ve left something of myself behind. Would I find it if I returned? I don’t think so. But others may   still.   (First Published in Writers Ezine, November 2015)       Lynn White  lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. ...

  The Little Ones Rise By Susan H. Evans     The world is a gift;  the hummingbird its magical messenger in motion.  Its wings wave white sage in ceremony. It moves like curling smoke wafting from a smudge stick; Its presence purifies the medicine wheel spinning, cleansing, around all life.  It raises vibration like a small drum beating,  With its heart beating,  like its wings beating,  like our hearts stirring, opening as spirit moves. These little ones rise, feathers opening our hearts to live again,  to love again,  to allow joy to flow into the dark chambers.  To blossom us up, down, and sideways; always they open to the sun  dispersing the medicine sweeter than nectar,  like bliss-inspirited flowers  that renews the magic of life.   (This poem first appeared in Visual Verse, October, 2022)     Susan H. Evans   writes in Baltimore, and teaches writing remotely for a community college...

  Me, [un] Braided by Barbara Simmons   Mornings meant braids, my hair divided into three long pony tails, right side, left side, middle, being undered and overed by mom’s fingers,  caught by rubber bands, concealed by plaid ribbons matching whatever I’d be wearing.  Neat. Tidied up, braided, ribboned, bowed,  no hair flying in my face: contained.  I remember saying goodbye to braids,  graduating to pony tails, one long streaming motion much like wings on Achilles’ heels, liberating me from barrettes that kept me kempt,  permitting unruly to be all right.   Later, I would brush my hair, long and wild, imagining a halo round my head swirling, circling, wildly catching everything from snow to pollen, all the seasons in every follicle,  until I heard my mother say  unkempt , my hair all tangled, snarled,  her words upbraided me, sent me to shears, the sheer freeing cutting all that hair off, heard me say yes and yes and yes again ...