James Green has published four chapbooks of poetry (Stations of the Cross, with Finishing Line Books; The Color of Prayer, with Shanti Arts Books; and Barely Still, Barely Stirring, with Finishing Line Books; and Long Journey Home, with Georgia Poetry Society). His individual poems have appeared in literary journals in Ireland, the UK, and the USA. He resides in Muncie, Indiana.
Isaac Returns to the Mountain
When they reached the place God had told him about, Abraham built an altar there
and arranged the wood on it. He bound his son Isaac and laid him on the altar,
on top of the wood. Then he reached out his hand and took the knife to slay his son.
But the angel of the LORD called out to him from heaven, “Abraham! Abraham!”
Genesis 22:9-11 (KJV)
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face:
now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
1 Corinthians 13:12 (KJV)
I come here often, always in the cool of morning
before the clutter of the day invades the hour,
where the wind whispers and streaks of dawn
rinse the mountains purple across Moriah.
They speak to me, this hour and this place,
arousing memory that is a voiceless prayer
and bares necessary truths that make
for a separate hard-won peace.
Here is the shrub where father tied the donkey
laden with wood for the fire and I said, “But father,
you forgot the lamb,” and where he answered,
“God provides,” evading truth with ambiguity,
a recourse I have learned myself and use often.
Over there is where I asked again of the lamb;
Although, by then I knew. And there is the rock
where he bound me. Yes, it is true.
And beyond is where he found the ram, its horns
tangled in the brush, after the angel came, after I,
breathless with fear, saw the knife drop to the ground
and father bury his face in his hands mumbling words
I could not hear, a prayer perhaps, over and over
while he sobbed and I, my hands still tied behind my back,
still cowering on the altar, waited in stopped time
as I stared at the knife in the dust.
All that was long ago:
Now the years have dimmed my eyesight
and the dull ache in my bones make the trail a hard one.
Yet I come. I come as one does to a grave, with flowers,
in need of some presence beyond memory, to listen again
to the comfort of my father’s voice, to bury any regrets
that still collect as sediment in my heart,
to know even as also I am known.
This poem was awarded first prize in the Illinois State Poetry Society 2020 Free Verse category and subsequently published in Catholic Poetry Room.
Bio of Gay Guard-Chamberlin
Gay Guard-Chamberlin is a Chicago poet and artist living in the redolent Devon Ave. neighborhood. Her first book of 36 poems, Red Thread Through a Rusty Needle, was released by New Wind Publishing. Gay has a Masters in Interdisciplinary Arts from Columbia College, Chicago. She has also studied and taught an array of topics, from collage and papermaking to women’s self-defense and InterPlay.
As often as possible, she and her sister in California, Anara Guard, perform their poetry together as Sibling Revelry; in April of this year they co-taught a workshop in Collaborative Poetry online for the Chicago Public Library’s celebration of Poetry Month. Gay also edits manuscripts, teaches creativity to adults, and poetry to young writers.
Mad for the Moon
I'm an unapologetic lunatic
for all things numinous
lovely and luminous
I’m fanatic for the fantastic
the phosperescence
of biolumenescence
the opalescent essence
of moonlight in refraction
the knowing reflection
inside an abalone shell
its lustrous glossy gleams
like the iridescent dreams
of miniature moons
milky-pearl planets crystal spheres
singing bowls for the waning years
Sparks Fly Upward
Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust,
neither doth trouble spring out of the ground;
yet man is born unto trouble,
as the sparks fly upward.
Job 5:6-7 (KJV)
Humped over my books at night, reason will not help me,
nor desire, so I take my groundless grief into the darkness
where fireflies escape like sparks soundlessly from a crease
between the shadows of trees and my moon lighted lawn.
Light from the lamp on my desk, a floor above where I stand,
spills wasted to the ground and I regret the yellow cast it leaves
on the grass in need of rain, onto the thin skin of earth
that does not, I am told, hold the First Cause of affliction.
I listen again, being born unto trouble, scheming of ways
to explain the morality of God, and strain against the silence
of blank space between star-sparks echoing light
where I hope against evidence of tomorrow’s dust.
Bio of John J. Gordon
John J. Gordon has had a lifelong love for the written word.
He began writing poetry for family and friends
to commemorate special occasions. After taking
poetry classes, he began his quest to become a poet.
He currently is a member of the ISPS, Poets & Patrons
and the Arbor Hill Gang. He has had poems published
in anthologies, reviews, journals and online.
His quest continues.
Automotive Memories
My family didn’t own one until I was nearly 20.
Most weekends we borrowed Uncle Joe’s ‘47 Plymouth
to be returned by early Monday morning.
Being car-less was not a major inconvenience.
From our south side home, street cars and buses
conveyed us anywhere in the city. We seldom
left Chicago, except on Sunday afternoons.
My father would pack my grandmother, aunt,
mother and me in the vehicle. He was
the only one who knew how to drive.
We motored to what was called the country,
most often a stretch of Ridge Road
near the Illinois-Indiana border.
This area teemed with seasonal farm stands
offering fresh fruits, vegetables, eggs,
honey and flowers. We rarely returned home
empty-handed except in the dead of winter.
I was not enthusiastic about these mandatory
excursions; stuffed in an uncomfortable car,
no radio or air conditioner, an inadequate heater,
surrounded by adult relatives.
I could not appreciate the sheer joy and the feeling
of freedom dad derived from just driving. Now as I
inch along on the Tri-State, I often picture my dad
behind the wheel on his Sunday afternoon drive.
Someone honking propels me back
from this much simpler, less congested time.
John J. Gordon
Bio of Gail Goepfert
Gail Goepfert is an ardent poet, photographer, and teacher. Currently, she’s an associate editor of RHINO Poetry and teaches classes online at National Louis University. Her story spans the Midwest in locations between the Mississippi River and northern Ohio, but her passion for travel is endless. She authored a chapbook, A Mind on Pain, (Finishing Line Press 2015), a book, Tapping Roots (Aldrich Press 2018), a second book, Get Up Said the World, Červená Barva Press, 2020. Collaboratively, she worked with Patrice Boyer Claeys during the COVID months on Honey from the Sun, a book of her centos and Gail’s photographs, and a chapbook, This Hard Business of Living, coming out from Seven Kitchens Press in 2021. Glass Lyre Press will publish her latest book of poetry in 2021–Self-Portrait with Thorns. Recent poem publications appear in After Hours, The Examined Life Journal, Night Heron Barks, Inflectionist Review, and Rogue Agent. She’s had four nominations for a Pushcart Prize and this year was nominated for Best of the Net by Night Heron Barks. Her photographs appear online at the Chicago Botanic Garden, Olentangy Review, Storm Cellar, and 3Elements Review and on the cover of February 2015 Rattle. She lives, writes, and snaps photos in the Chicagoland area.
Desperate Beauty
— I paint flowers so they will not die. Frida Kahlo
We are watchers, Frida.
Aching but obedient to light,
resurrected by shocks of color.
Mornings you pluck
bougainvillea or pearly
gardenias, plait them in your hair
above your brow. I shadow
the fire of spring poppies
and the profusion of lilacs
and pink hydrangea.
With the organ pipe cactus,
you spike a sage-green fence
on the borders of La Casa Azul
tuned to the rhythms of sun
and rain—its lavender-white
flowers tint while you sleep.
Our love-eyes like greedy
tongues lick the rare-red
of wild angel trumpets.
We are aficionados. Pregnant
with joy in the garden’s cosmos.
We pursue hues like lovers’
lips, stalk columns of yellow
calla-lilies, praise the appeal
of honey-petalled sunflowers
and the lobes of violet irises.
We thrive on iridescence—
our eyes attuned to its blessing.
Watchers. We bend near
in reverence to the bloom—
all pain humbled
for a time by beauty.
— first published in SWWIM
Daedalus Laments Icarus
Airborne he learned his wings worked their own magic.
Thermal currents, with the gentle rhythmic hunching
of his shoulders (the way I instructed him) did the work of flight,
having perfected the systems’ mechanics in tests myself,
although I warned him of the limitations of the adhesives.
First he circled the labyrinth, taunting our captors,
delighting at the sight of the tiny guards shaking their fists,
their arrows dangling in mid-air before falling back to earth,
that horrible man-bull thing rutting the lawn with its hooves,
the king stomping back and forth, cursing the sky.
Trying to be practical in all matters, I pointed the way
of a straight course toward the coast on the horizon,
but I saw Icarus feel the rush of flight, the flesh of his face
pressed taut by the wind, smiling from the kiss of sunlight
on the nape of his neck. First, he tried a few steep banks,
then loops, then, a high-velocity dive, pulling up in time
to buzz fishing boats, whitecaps lapping at his feet,
before climbing again, higher and higher, warnings forgotten
from a memory that held only the last instant of exhilaration,
higher than the gulls to where the island was hidden in its mist.
No one saw him fall but I; the fishermen didn’t notice.
But what I saw still haunts, the flailing arms and legs
splashing soundlessly into the sea, feathers floating
on the dark surface like petals scattered on a grave,
finally the crest of a plush wave, swallowing him.
They say that grief takes time, that first you make your peace
with the gods and then you make a separate peace with yourself.
Those who say so never saw their sons fall from the sky,
never gave their sons wings to fly to their deaths.
It is more of a cease-fire, not at all the same as peace.
True, the wings I invented were the means of our escape;
but eventually one grows weary of paradox and he wants to feel
what he feels, wants to face the face that still hovers in vapor
over the water and touch lost time again, wants to speak
what only can be spoken in silence long after it is too late.
Bio of Joseph (Joe) Glaser
Most of Joe’s career was technical management, but near retirement an interest in Liberal Arts blossomed and he began writing poetry in 2008. His poems have been published in Front Porch Review, Muses’ Gallery of Highland Park Poetry, Journal of Modern Poetry, East on Central, Distilled Lives, and other journals and anthologies. Candid travel photos too.
Japanese Garden Rumination
There’s something about the Japanese,
forever striving for beauty
and perfection.
Stretching minds beyond the natural.
They carefully prune and primp and prop a tree,
supporting its exploring arms
across generations.
Taking years, decades, centuries even.
Coaxing limbs in new directions,
growing surreal shapes
of gremlins dancing.
In a fantasy of strange contortions.
We wonder at a tree transcendent,
unbound from self,
imbued with art.
Evoking old dreams and new reflections.
And we must struggle to remember that this magic is created
by the same people who fought us
in wide deep war.
With ferocity that knew few bounds.
These engaging people so perfectly polite to visitors,
thoughtful and friendly and helpful
beyond expectations.
Now picnicking peacefully under cascades of cherry blossoms.
And lovingly preserved at the Peace Museum for Kamikaze Pilots
hang winsome portraits of brave young men
with their poetic letters.
Sensitively bidding family a last farewell.
© Joe Glaser, April 2008
Published in 2008/9 Vol 17 of "The Journal" of Northwestern University's OLLI program.
Complexity
Lioness adopts a fawn
licks and protects it for days into weeks
until her odd love ends in dinner or desertion.
Is the praying mantis religious?
What does she feel when eating her mate
right after copulating - instead of having a smoke?
Competing instincts in living things
coexist and clash and confound us
as we strain our big brains
in search of bold insights
I watch in dismay as a live turtle is cooked for lunch
and served up with a $2,000 bottle of wine
at a proud Shanghai restaurant.
As a sensitive animal lover
I am disgusted by such casual culinary cruelty,
and yet I relish aged steaks and tender young lamb chops.
In myth and art the god Saturn ate his children,
and I ponder how higher instincts can reduce to love, hate, yum.
Even at peace in my hi-tech haven,
eyes casually surfing old TVs and new computers,
I can feel my mind inexorably drawn to scenes of violence.
And once again I crash into the complexity of the human condition.
© Joe Glaser, Dec 2009, rev. 2012, 2016