You might be looking the same !
It is a magazine of sincerity, honesty, truth and fulness.
Enjoy some snippets here below …
From Dianna Henning
(1) TO BORROW RADIANCE
Sometimes it’s so subtle
It’s mistaken for something else.
A moth tumbled from night’s porch light
A stone in the heel of your shoe.
Even a tattered corner of sunshine is better
Than believing it’s never found.
Didn’t the widow, stripped in grief
Reveal pure angle of cheek bone—
Hadn’t she, at last, set her face free?
You’d gladly peel off that expression
Smooth it down over your own years
The radiant tucked behind ears.
Under some circumstances
Beauty is mistaken for grief.
But in the widow’s case, the opposite—
A face so clear it revealed her soul—
Enlargement emerging from loss.
The moth was a small god on the porch
The stone, nugget of an angel.
(2) ACROSS FROM MY SISTER’S RED VT SCHOOL-HOUSE
THE HOME SHE & HER HUSBAND REMODELED
An elderly man sits on a stone wall outside his house
Fondles his dog’s ears, caresses its back.
Nearby, a shovel remains upright, plugged
As though an exclamation stuck in earth.
He won’t pull it out.
He has terminal cancer.
From across the street, I imagine
The choked back tears as his eye lavishes
Over all that’s quietly familiar;
His land shaped to a dream
Of rural beauty, rural equipoise: his lawn
Hedged with sprays of multicolored wildflowers
Porch perched above a lap of greenery
So surprisingly vivid it burns my eyes
As I watch him again and again
Lovingly cuff his black spaniel.
Strangers Between Walls by Andrei Guruianu
What can I say about changing place
And the weary night song piled outside every window ?
It can weigh you down like happiness, like rain, like the notion of destiny
Or an obligatory farewell that you carry strapped to your shoulders.
Believe me, if it would help you see things in a different light
I would only write poems about ballerinas and dream gardens.
The sun and the fresh air would do you a world of good.
And I would make it rain just enough to spruce up the flowers.
I would do all of this in a French dialect
And part my hair accordingly to look like a soft smile.
But the truth is I could never understand
Why a single language is not enough.
Breath blown into an empty bottle
And tossed into the nearest stream.
This human need for a philosophy of words
When a howl would do much better.
After all, we are only dogs missing the fancy leash
And the tinderbox of home we sometimes call a house.
Places change because with the years we change even less.
We’ve spent too much time in the dirt
And now everything is relative to it, because of it.
More or less under our fingernails.
Scrape away, rinse and repeat
And still the hounding memory of nights under the stars.
Backs to the chill of dry ground
And nothing but a long sigh
For a sheet to pull up to the neck.
How many sighs does it take to make a death ?
Let’s begin counting now and see who gets there first.
Ce n’est pas le cirque du soleil after all.
That much any fool could tell you for a nickel.
Just open your eyes
When the night peaks at its most exotic and serious black.
We’ve been here before, you and I.
Heard sounds that would never make sense out of context.
But there was no need to translate what the crickets said.
For once there was no need.
By Gerd Theissen
We will have won if we have an inkling
That our life contains a message –
To us and through us and for others;
If we become certain
That the creator of our life wants
To say something through us :
And he needs us for that.
He also needs little things in our lives.
We will have won if we become certain
That between life and death
We represent something as indestructible
As the meaning of a figure in a parable
If we understand our life
As an idea of God
Which we may think through further;
In short, if we ourselves
Become a meaningful parable.
For more, especially the longer works, please visit the magazine site on the web.
I can’t explain but the pic below is an entire poem in itself !