Untitled in Blue #2 to W by Gabriella Garofalo

Isabella Mariana

Untitled in Blue #2 to W 

Who’s that, can’t you see it’s only

A matter of time, and seeds everywhere, 

A red ochre on rough white rocks,

If she distrusts his smile, look, her sky bites

When handling trees, or limbs-

But words have nothing to do with it,

Words, her stale bread, her damaged goods, yes,

They can’t bite a bastard winter, or dirty sunsets,

So stop showing off, stop shouting for answers, 

Stop trees, or limbs, and rush 

To brambles, to blades of grass,

The answers you set to tangle her mind,

Just think of her women, the black that shines

If you foul up the trees, the sky, the moon, the grass,

If a tricky light breaks your desire for a lost creation-

And you, Father, please don’t waste your time

Carving comets, or trees, while in her lounge

The grudge springs up, stays on, 

Such a lovely bush, whenever you lend

To her dirty time sighs, blades of grass,

Young lovers on the road, 

On the trail of runaway stars -

Give it up, she can’t see the music of wombs 

They told you again and again, 

When desire is just around the corner,

That disgraced blade of grass of no interest

To deaf souls she sees lost in the undergrowth, 

Still dreaming of bold moves, 

And to your wait for a fall where at long last 

You might even bend to light.

© Gabriella Garofalo

Gabriella Garofalo

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six, and is the author of these books: Lo sguardo di Orfeo, L’inverno di vetro, Di altre stelle polari, Casa di erba, Blue Branches, Blue Soul, and After The Blue Rush.

Follow Feed the Holy

A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS by Sarah Das Gupta

Azra Tuba Demir

A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS

He was unique, his old trousers

tied up with string,

One long thumbnail, grown

to untie knots in binder twine.

Horse whisperer, sheepdog trainer, 

pig breeder, cattleman.

Out in the fields, fence mending,

reading the cloud runes.   

Watching leaden skies,

prepared for the sullen face of the winter solstice

Dark, threatening, Saint Lucy’s Day,

One light in the mothy darkness.   

Deep drifts, a mid-winter wilderness.

Yet he was cutting logs for bright kitchen fires,

Rich blazing flames of orange, red to challenge

the resolute, primeval darkness.

Soaked by rain, hair thatched with snow,

His soul lies beneath the frozen plough,

awaiting another Spring!

© Sarah Das Gupta

Sarah Das Gupta

Sarah Das Gupta is an 82-year-old, handicapped poet from Cambridge, UK. She started writing poetry in 2022 after an accident that has prevented her from walking more than a few metres. Her work has been published in over twenty countries. Writing has enabled her to travel and communicate with many people through words.

Follow Feed the Holy.

Out of Season by Richard King Perkins II

 

Sedanur Kunuk

Out of Season

Forget spring, its predictable eruptions dialing an ageless code: magnolias and acacia absorb soft orange flutes, the cat skates in the ditch, mousing leaves in the wind, unencumbered by thistle, pouncing up to startle a rabbit into motion, stretched to a sprint, leaving behind a spread of honeystalks arrived on limpid wafts, freshly arisen from the peat of sighs and vines, revealed as the heart’s rarest seedling, forgotten women who have given comfort in every hour, above the Chinese restaurant, the stacked columns of take-out containers, soliloquies of open tables, celebrations of nourishment and enrichment, how our bodies parted after being so intimately linked, the mind of truth, where one movement only prevents another, rain spreads lightly as butterflies, reversing flight, the first element of darkness, fear departs as fog, a supple plea attaching to the pink mist of morning that rises to my eyes. How vital and random the dew on my lashes, the burrs clinging to the calico hair. So much greater are we to see above the slope of this minor stillness.

© 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.

A year ago today by John Doriot

April Yang

A year ago today

As I walk down my street

on a sunless day, the sky

full of silver gray, I can

see the trees in the woods

leaning on earth’s shoulders.

Their distant cousin Helene

was in an angry mood 

when she last visited them

in September, a year ago today.

Some of their brothers and

sisters were swept away

by Helene’s terrifying shrieks.

There are those who survived

who lay crippled but grip

the ground and remain alive. 

Now, as the season changes, 

the bent backs, the twisted

limbs are more noticeable, 

as their green foliage begins

to turn brown, falling down

to a ground, dry from drought. 

Their Mother never told them

life would be easy, but 

many still stand defiant, 

and beauty still abounds. 

There are gold hints within 

the woods, apricot hues, 

orange, amber, and red

shades begin to emerge. 

These colors, still vibrant, will

provide me encouragement, 

hope, and pleasure, even

though I now fear the 

wrath of their mother 

each time she displays anger. 

© John Doriot

John Doriot 

John Doriot is an award-winning author and poet. He has written 17 books and received 7 Georgia Independent Author of the Year Awards from 2022 to 2025. Three of those awards were for collections of poetry. 

Follow Feed the Holy

Jumping Off an Out-of-Control Train by Nancy Machlis Rechtman

 

Bingqian Li 

Jumping Off an Out-of-Control Train

Even long before they talked about honeymoons

Where she dreamed of Barbados

With horseback rides on the beach

And driving through citrus-splashed sunsets that were like paintings

She knew he couldn’t be moved from his desire

To hike the snow-covered trails out West

In the depths of the icy winter, which he assured her

Would be just as romantic as lying in the warm sand

With waves lapping at their feet

And they searched for a middle ground

Hoping like magic it would suddenly appear.

She should have stopped then

But she continued to make plans

Because she had boarded an out-of-control train

That was about to jump the tracks

As she held on tight.

But then the letter came and although she already knew

She pushed on and read the words 

That had always been hanging in the air

And now finally crashed on top of her

Like an avalanche.

She stood rock still for a moment 

Then with a deep inhalation of breath

As if she had just awoken from a dream

Or a nightmare

She grabbed the car keys

And raced outside

And drove past the strip malls

With their neon signs beckoning like Sirens

And the dilapidated hot-dog stand at the edge of town

Finally winding through the gnarled trees

Where hers was the only car on the hidden road that led down to the lake.

The warm air caressed her cheek as she sat 

Gazing at the sun-dappled horizon

Its reflection playing on the still waters

While the crickets chattered noisily to her

And she dreamed, hoping to find answers

As the darkness encircled her.

Soon she roused herself 

Realizing that the questions were gone

So she slowly bumped back down the road to town

And then farther, picking up speed

As she headed for the twinkling lights of the airport 

Wishing upon a star

That when she got there

She would find there was a night flight to Barbados

© Nancy Machlis Rechtman

Nancy Machlis Rechtman

Nancy Machlis Rechtman has poetry and stories published in Writing in a Woman’s Voice, miniMAG, Discretionary Love, Young Ravens, and other publications. Nancy has had poetry, essays, and plays published in various anthologies. She wrote lifestyle stories for a local newspaper and served as the copy editor for another paper.

Follow Feed the Holy

Cologne by Chris Biscuiti

Darina Belonogova

Cologne

I thought I’d teach you how to shave
as you ask me about cologne
you’d say it’s only men’s perfume
we’d laugh, I’d hold that sound like stone

I know I’d miss you as you grew
you’d go to Binghamton like me
we’d talk briefly between classes
I’d stare at the empty driveway

You’d come back around in due time
filled with mid-20’s hopes and fears
you’d swear you think you found the one
we’d talk about it over beers

We’d never forget your big day
your mom would cry during the vows
we’d pop champagne, I’d close my eyes —
I wake up now to laughing sounds

You’re happy and clapping in bed
and today you reach for my hand
I transfer you to your wheelchair
you smile as if to thank me

I thought I’d teach you how to shave
and you’d ask me about cologne
we won’t laugh over men’s perfume
I hold your bravery like stone

© Chris Biscuiti

Chris Biscuiti

Chris Biscuiti is a poet, caregiver, and Dad to his son Bray Bray. Chris' poem The Believer won the 2025 BREW Poetry Project Community Poem of the Year, and his poem The Hours was published in FLARE Magazine, Issue 4. Connect with Chris on Substack — https://chrisbwrites.substack.com 

Follow Feed the Holy