Confessional by Edilson A. Ferreira

Chinmay Singh

Confessional 

No one knows, or could know, 

except me, 

of all the wrong turns that haunted the life 

that I was forced to live; 

of the lost battles which I did not dare shout to the world,  

but cried for in my corner, alone and embittered;

of the unfair attacks I was unable to defend myself, 

or of some, I do not know how I got the strength,

and had been victorious, defeating them; 

of the loyal and affectionate love I found, 

but lacked the courage to embrace;

of the faith and hope I had to invent, 

for not possessing them in the right size, 

when I got up each new day; 

of a strong and paternal God who provided me 

with an army of angels, who guided me through  

some dark and crooked paths I have traveled by. 

© Edilson A. Ferreira

Enjoy more posts by Edilson A Ferreira HERE.

Edilson A. Ferreira

Edilson A. Ferreira, 81, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. He has published two poetry books, Lonely Sailor and Joie de Vivre, and 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.

Follow Feed the Holy

Nothing by Lynn White

Eva Bronzini

Nothing

In those streets

of men and boys,

in that country 

for men and boys,

she feels like a person with no face,

her face space covered,

her identity occupied

by a swirling mist of confusion

like nothingness being born.

Sometimes 

she wishes for a blank space

that she could fill herself

with a Magritte apple

or even a woman

even herself

un-blanked

and visible.

Now, in those streets

of men and boys,

in that country 

for men and boys,

she feels like a person with no voice,

Magritte’s apple is choking her,

muting her

so even in her home she whispers

her songs and curses.

Only in her head does she shout

that something will come of nothing,

that something must come of nothing.

(First published in New Verse News, August 28 2024)

© Lynn White

Enjoy other posts by Lynn White HERE.

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/

Follow Feed the Holy

Feathers and Ferns by Myrtle Thomas

eduardo199o9

Feathers and Ferns

spring with its blooms and quick rain
bluebirds like blue bells in the sky
feathers and song
red birds like drops of blood
hummingbirds silent on the flower
wings like a rustling wind
dawn sits on their backs like emerald stones
hints of fire – eyes like ebony
drunken with the nectar of roses
sprinkled with fire.

now the red bud tree is littered
with blood rubies and robins
the forest deep and yawning
life leaps upon its branches
green leaves peek from the crown
a blue-eyed child
in the middle red balloons
the sun with its bursting yellow blooms
flowers and white clouds
time holds between shadows and light.

for most there’s no need for a history of fern-
or feather – no desire to find the roots of a seed
but those who feel the sun’s warm fingers stretching
mending the broken hearts that grieve
casting clouds of butterflies
bees buzzing on the flower – covered with pollen
my lips ready for my lover’s kiss
ready for the fire that burns my breast
the laughter we find in the sweet grass
the moonlight that burns with its flame.

© Myrtle Thomas

Enjoy more posts by Myrtle Thomas HERE.

Myrtle Thomas

Myrtle Thomas lives in America and is retired from a large manufacturing company. She has been published in several poetry journals and magazines, and is a member of ALLpoetry.com, writing under the pen name Bluebird74. Myrtle self-published four poetry books and also has a new chapbook on Amazon (In My Land of Dreams). She uses poetry as a form of medicine to heal past wounds; poetry has been a companion to her for over thirty years.

Follow Feed the Holy

Poetry by Steven Bruce

Auguries of Despair
(Casper David Friedrich - Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog)

On the Edge of Nothing

AFTER JOHN KEATS

I fear I’ll drop dead

before the pen dries to wheat,

before the books stack high

enough to leave a mark,

before the night spits out

its secrets in phlegmy stars,

before I have the strength

to face more dumb, dangerous love,

before I can stand where I am,

hands empty, with a smile carved

into my face.

Auguries of Despair

AFTER WILLIAM BLAKE

To see a life in a glint of grit,

and beauty in a trampled flower.

To crush despair in your tired fist, and snatch joy from a rotten hour.

© Steven Bruce Enjoy more posts by Steven Bruce HERE.

Steven Bruce

Steven Bruce is a writer and a multiple-award-winning author. His poems and short stories have appeared in numerous international anthologies and magazines. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. You can follow Steven on his website: www.stevenbrucewriter.co.uk.

Follow Feed the Holy

SONGFEST by John Grey

Jesús Esteban San José

SONGFEST

The morning songfest is underway.

First up is the cardinal,

high in the lilac branch

with his “purdy purdy purdy.”

I offer up a

“whoit whoit whoit” 

in response.

Then the sparrows

overfill the brush

with trill.

My whistle adds 

to the clamor.

The Carolina wren, 

the titmouse,

the chickadee –

my imitation

is heartfelt,

even if not taken seriously.

Yet if birds ever need

a man to stand in for them,

I’m ready.

Only the flying escapes me.

© John Grey

Enjoy more posts by John Grey HERE.

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, a US resident, and has recently been published in Midnight Mind, Novus, and Abbey. His latest books, “Bittersweet," “Subject Matters,” and “Between Two Fires,” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Alchemy, Touchstone, and Willow Review.

Follow Feed the Holy

THIS WORLD by Lorraine Caputo

skigh_tv

THIS WORLD

I meditate in the blood light

of that eclipsing moon

When I return

to this world

my unsteady self

captures its image

I delve again

into that other world

deeply immersed in dreams

I do not remember

& awaken to a heavy rain

cleansing this world

© Lorraine Caputo

Enjoy more posts by Lorraine Caputo HERE.

Lorraine Caputo

Poet-translator Lorraine Caputo’s works appear internationally in over 500 journals and 23 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (Dancing Girl Press, 2023). She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.

Follow Feed the Holy

Poetry by Linda Imbler

Jordan Benton

Tribute To A Man

An orchestra of wildlife, 

paying tribute to

a bedridden man,

ready to retire from God’s payroll,

as his songs of life

are trilled through the musical sands of his hourglass.

~~~~~

Small Birds

Eaglets and other birds,

whether pheasant, cowbird, or toucan,

their peepy chants,

the only language of the little ones,

tend to ripple through the brood,

tenants riding shotgun

on their twiggy dinette.

Hens of all types,

sitting on windowsills

until shooed away.

A beakful of a dozen wiggly treats,

a boon for the babies

who will take their tenacious grip on the worms,

mouths open to take in

their sacrament in their birdey basilica,

with mother and sometimes father watching.

They mingle and they change,

but early on they simply lie back,

like they’re on vacation,

and wait for their feasts.

© Linda Imbler

Enjoy more posts by Linda Imbler HERE.

Linda Imbler

Linda Imbler is the author of eleven paperback poetry collections and four e-book collections (Soma Publishing). This writer lives in Wichita, Kansas, with her husband, Mike the Luthier, and an ever-growing family of gorgeous guitars. Learn more at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.

Follow Feed the Holy

Insults by Kushal Poddar

Rafael Minguel Delgado

Insults 

I didn't comprehend 

most of the slang, the bulk

of the insults. Soon lost

that safe bay, harbor 

of innocence. A friend 

told me, "Now you know 

that place where the tongue

of our country ends

and its brain fumbles

for the leash of the reign.

I asked him, "Am I now

included? In your clan?"

"Do you feel insecure?"

He asked. I looked around. 

It was a dry ocean.

It was a reflection of a dark stone.

© Kushal Poddar

Enjoy more posts by Kushal Poddar HERE.

Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar has authored ten books, the latest being A White Can For The Blind Lane, and his works have been translated into twelve languages. He is a co-editor for Outlook Magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing. He does illustrations and sketches for various magazines.

Follow Feed the Holy

Mistletoe by Michael Brockley

Karen Laårk Boshoff

Mistletoe

I come from a place where women are named Holly and Joy. From where men want to be nicknamed Melchior or Nicholas. I come from Decembers where gold stars dance at the end of invisible strings on a Yule tree. I come from “Good King Wenceslas,” “Greensleeves,” and “The Wexford Carol.” From rabbit tracks twinned in the snow. I come from a place where a fire dragon exchanges gifts with a small friar. I am the son of a mistletoe merchant. The man-child who lifts mistletoe sprigs so high that those who are meant to be kissed might be kissed gloriously. 

© Michael Brockley

Enjoy more posts by Michael Brockley HERE.

Michael Brockley

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His prose poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Doublespeak Mag, and Keeping the Flame Alive. In addition, Brockley's prose poems are forthcoming in Bay to Ocean Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark VI, and Stormwash: Environmental Poems, Volume II.

Follow Feed the Holy