Fencepost of Salvation by Richard King Perkins II

 

simanta datta

Fencepost of Salvation

 

Incaution is my legacy—

I give to you my scarred hands

and laughing thoughts thrown into heaven’s courtyard.

And now, the tranquil earth melts away

into silver runes ringing

in the sweet throat of morning.

Later, barricades will fall and broken depths

descend past the curve of my rescue.

Remarkable supplication, all these things;

how giving, stark and filled with murmur.

 

You stride like light in that barest place,

feel the living body of a valley

brace against your feet.

You heal my broken hands at the fencepost of salvation

until they are entirely your own.

You replace the lost sound of my voice

so that I boldly sing.

In the flower valley and white meadow,

in the white tale of tomorrow

on the planet you’ve inherited from so many;

you repair my being

until I’m simply an ancient fracture restored.

 

Incaution is my legacy—

my scarred hands,

my laughing thoughts thrown into heaven’s courtyard;

and yet, you are.

© Richard King Perkins II

Richard King Perkins II

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Huntley, IL, with his wife, Vickie, and daughter, Sage. His work has appeared in more than fifteen hundred publications.

Two Poems by Vern Fein

Marta Dzedyshko

O, MACRINA

In Roman times when the church was fledgling,

babies were abandoned along the Appian Way. 

While their keening parents kneeled,

soldiers pushed  them down drains by the hundreds,

mainly girls and the deformed and weak

until the church saw and responded.

In those days, the church lurched between helping the poor

or erecting church buildings and monuments.

It was not the brothers Gregory and Basil

who swept up these helpless infants.

It was their sister Macrina. 

Praise you for your denial of a privileged life.

Praise you for attending famines

to rescue the poor when flesh hung like cobwebs,

for saving those girls and marshaling an army

of church mothers to do the same,

bring them home to raise.   

Now we treat immigrants like those road babies,

may we respond to Macrina's example. She knew 

that Mary had raised a poor baby who was rejected

because he was not conceived the way he was supposed to be.

VESPER

An angel decided to rescue an angel.

Evil humans capture angels,

neglect them and treat them cruelly—

so we have shelters for rescue.

Floated to a loving home,  

a little white cloud of a dog, 

named Vesper, as holy as an

evening prayer, a daily

answer for the angels

who found each other.

© Vern Fein

Vern Fein

A recent octogenarian, Vern Fein, has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces on more than 100 websites. A few are Gyroscope Review, Young Raven’s Review, Bindweed, *82 Review, River And South, Grey Sparrow Journal, and One Art.  His second poetry book—REFLECTION ON DOTS—was released late last year. 

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Square Root by Julie A. Dickson

 

Alexey Demidov

Square Root

We are taught in mathematics

that the square root of a number

are two numbers when multiplied

equal itself

Roots are part of an underground

network below trees, nourishing

the main trunk, branches

and leaves

Human roots are ancestors,

those who lived before us,

whom we might call family,

parents, grandparents

If I am human, not a tree

and not established mathematically,

then parts of who I am multiplied

make up me

If my sum equals the whole of me,

psyche, brain, body and memories,

then my roots feed branches, limbs

outward stretched

If my roots do not nourish my body,

I wither, might not grow or thrive,

sounds like I need my very roots

to survive

© Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson has been a poet for over 55 years and a YA fiction writer. She draws from memories, life experiences, nature, and visual art. Her work has been widely published in many journals, including Kind of a Hurricane Press, Lothlorien, Ekphrastic Review, Feed the Holy, and MasticadoresUSA. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and Jojo.

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Living and Dying on a Spring Evening by William Ogden Haynes

 

Skyler Ewing

Living and Dying on a Spring Evening

As the sun begins to set, flightless 

baby birds cheep in their basket of 

twigs, spider silk, and dried grass 

waiting for their mother. She is a robin 

with russet breast like a flower of spring, 

wheeling swift-winged across the sky.

And even with a large worm in her beak, 

she sings her song of whistled splendor 

on the way to feed her babies. Meanwhile, 

by the side of the road, a runover possum 

is surrounded by three turkey vultures. This 

visage draws the attention of crows gripping 

overhead electrical wires. They stand in a 

line, black-robed, like judges examining the 

scene of an accident, as a long slow 

dusk begins to play the night-birds' tune. 

© William Ogden Haynes

William Ogden Haynes

William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama, born in Michigan. He has published several collections of poetry, and many of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com

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Rilke's epitaph: humankind by Debasis Mukhopadhyay

Nancy Zjaba

Rilke's epitaph: humankind 

if Rilke was not 

                         an autumn leaf

drowned in blue

his God

turning self 

                       to immortality

sitting on a wall

and 

Gaza ablush

with 

       a brushstroke

the pigment about humankind

longing for              beauty

the soil

            the rose

the stilled clouds

                           confined in bones

no sleep 

              for themselves alone

© Debasis Mukhopadhyay

Debasis Mukhopadhyay

Debasis Mukhopadhyay is the author of the chapbook kyrie eleison or all robins taken out of context. His poems have appeared in International Times, MasticadoresUSA, Stride, The Honest Ulsterman, Posit, Erbacce, I am not a silent poet, Skinny Poetry Journal and elsewhere. Debasis lives and writes in Montreal, Canada. 

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Graveyard by Lynn White

Pixabay

Graveyard

I sit here quiet and gravely thoughtful.

It feels so peaceful on the surface

but I know gravity is on the pull,

drawing the dead down below

trying to keep them for itself

in the graveyard.

I don’t think graves want gravity

I think they want to rise up, 

taste the joy of lives already lived

which live on still in memories,

and be grave no longer

refusing burial

rejecting gravity

remaining alive

in the glimpses, 

of lives passed, 

brushing with immortality

as they wait.

Wait 

for the worms 

to devour them 

and bring life back

to the graveyard

of memories 

and dreams.

First published in Poets Online, Cemetery Issue, March 2025

© Lynn White

Lynn White

Lynn White lives in North Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice, as well as events, places, and people she has known or imagined. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com  and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

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Cherished Desires by Edilson A. Ferreira

 

Abhiram Prakash

Cherished Desires 

I feel I could never be related to owls, bats  

and wolves, or other nocturnal animals. 

I love at daylight to stare at the world face to face, 

entirely visualizing all its beauties.  

I love the sunrise that dispels the blackness,

exposing and revealing everything,    

without shame, measure or prudence. 

I love to feel that we’re on the road again,  

to a future we aren’t aware of, but confident

in one Almighty who, closely and amorously,

hidden and discreet, maybe even shy, 

drives and guides all of us.  

I love the noise of people on streets and alleys,

corners and places,  

jointly seeking to move the hard wheels of time. 

I prefer love vows made clearly under the sun 

than those made in the rapture of night passions. 

I must confess that, on some sunny days 

and a blue sky, 

I dream of riding the winds high and high,  

looking for the lost realms of Paradise.

First published in Indiana Voice Journal, Sept/Oct. 2017 issue.

© Edilson A. Ferreira

Edilson A. Ferreira

Edilson A. Ferreira, 81, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. He has launched two poetry books, Lonely Sailor and Joie de Vivre, and has published 300 works in various international literary journals. Has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He began writing at the age of 67 after retiring from a bank.

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