by Anonymous We wandered these plains before the civil war, before the prophets told of Nineveh’s fate, from God’s merciful hammer and our mules and camels drank this water long before the royal hanging gardens withered and died from neglect. Before the stateless caliphate thugs held our treasures for ransom…
by William Bortz I sit and count, in a midday sun, my troubles and woes the casted shadows of full limbs and branches poking through my kitchen window and stretching down the wall the blackened tips of my weary fingers- filing and sorting sight encumbered within my head; a cracked…
by Brianna Kittrell She greets you at birth, and you cry in her presence, still she becomes a part of your essence. She sways with the trees and rustles the leaves, and her beauty deserves more praise than it receives. Though she is giving and kind, she is often taken…
by Lisa Harris Where to begin? When she was 17, ten plus seven, in the 7th month on the 7th day, she flew on a 747 above one of the 7 seas to one of the 7 continents. At first, she did not notice patterns in what she saw as…
by Jeff Eyssallenne A lazy lake under wandering ripples A breeze that startles the grass Faraway screams from happy children Rhythmic rushes from cars passing nearby Busy birds calling to each other A rock plopping into the lake makes me open a reluctant eye to see A young boy A…
by Jenny Andrews Days lie down crumble all around ruins obscured in mid-February shadows Sundays lost amid gods long forgotten. Sleeping in with a remembrance of his hand at the small of my back, resting there, his lips flutter behind my earlobe, the scent of him-musky like sweat, his kiss…
by Brianna Kittrell If the moon could speak to the sun, she would commend him on a long day done. She would tell him that he owns her heart, and that there is no light when they are apart. She glances him in passing, though it be very brief, and…
by Brianna Kittrell I wake up each morning and somehow remember less, from my father’s favorite song to my mother’s favorite dress. The moments of yesterday just barely linger, I try to grasp the memories, but they evade my desperate fingers. There are small flashbacks from happenings long ago, but…
by Gonzalinho da Costa For Father Pat Giordano, SJ The moon abides invisibly in a day painted white. At my shoulder a dark green shadow is floating, the sea. Breakers rush toward shore, roaring lions inside a wind tunnel. Peering within myself, I see bottomless water. Stillness enters the space…