Category: Poetry

PURPLE IRIS BY WALLY SWIST

for Gabriel Rummonds They bloom above the yellow dazzle of cosmos and even after the sticky sweetness of the vibrant petals of red peonies were shattered by wind and rain. These royal purple iris, reigning atop their thin stems,...

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GIFT BY WALLY SWIST

for Mark Burrows This early October afternoon has been gilded by golden light whose beams have been touched with a dappled reverence; which has consumed me with such pointed concentration, I am reminded of its significance only...

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MARY’S WISDOM BY MARIANNE LYON

For many years I ghost-walked through grandma’s garden, sat in auntie’s backyard— nose in book, yet every summer every rose opened her fragrant self and lived in glorious rest in healing aroma in honeyed light, longing to give...

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BEGUILEMENT BY MARIANNE LYON

What is it about sky’s darkening hue in early evening in summer that evinces a oneness both staggering and healing? Whenever I return home I feel deeply loved. Meanwhile outside I stand in holy contentment by a gate smothered in...

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STILLNESS BY MARIANNE LYON

My work now is astonishment. Here the breeze—an impulsive playful puppy. There a lark—perches on budding maple head thrown back, breast a quiver, sings straight at the sun, Do I walk at a slower pace? Is my mind unable to...

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WAR ON THE WAVES BY ZIXUAN ZHENG

Violent current, inviolable Sea, Gallant sailors, at Mother’s knee. For truth, the Sea is unwilling to compromise, Launching an attack on their lives. Black and blue, on and on they fight, Voyaging into the dark of night....

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OCEAN GRAVE BY ZIXUAN ZHENG

If it is the truth you seek, Then you would know the future is bleak. The rising tides, their ebb and flow, Into their depths, we all must go. Deep beneath the ocean’s waves, Lie what will be aquatic graves. We took her life,...

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A PEACOCK FEATHER BY JONATHAN BRACKER

When the nice young lady down the hall In this apartment house agreed to cut My sweet cat’s claws, she did it very well, Said she enjoyed doing it, would take no money, And continued doing so for several months; She had...

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NO FORGIVENESS BY VINCENT BELL

The fires of his hell will burn his soul in perpetuity. His pain must be as endless as mine. When I knew that I could never be innocent again it was impossible to hold back the solace of...

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HE LIKED HIS DUTIES BY VINCENT BELL

The new priest was a German refugee who (or so he said) was tortured with hot oily rags leaving him with facial scars and a tic. He was younger than the others, so he got the more demanding assignments — after-school gym and...

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