Baileys Spiked Coffee by Terry Allen

cottonbro studio

Baileys Spiked Coffee

The old gentleman sits by himself 

in the dimmed light

at his favorite corner table in the jazz club,

keeping warm on a bitter, cold winter night,

and listening to the trio play,

All the Things You Are,

a sensuous and tenderhearted song.

And that’s just fine by him.

It’s a piece he liked to play on the piano

when his arthritic hands didn’t betray his efforts

to bring to life Jerome Kern’s lovely melody.

It’s this piece that reminds him of his wife

who passed away two or three years ago.

Although, now, he’s not entirely certain.

Often, he can’t recall how long he’s been alone

and that’s when, he feels her presence,

and he thinks she may not have left at all.

It’s in these fleeting moments

that he hears her voice so clearly

that he finds himself speaking out loud to her.

And now, in the last year or so, he sees her

for just a moment. Usually it’s late at night,

sometimes she’s sitting in a chair,

looking at him from across the room,

or she’s passing by the bedroom door.

I should talk to someone about this,

he finds himself saying aloud

as the trio takes the lush, intricate music

for an improvised walk around the room.

I’ll make an appointment next week

and talk to the doctor, he thinks

as he sips the last of his drink

and sits back and is carried away to a time 

when the air was warm and his wife was near, 

just as she is now, sitting close to him,

listening to the music, and keeping time with her translucent hand on the table near his.

(First Published in Front Porch Review)

© Terry Allen

Terry Allen

Terry Allen is an Emeritus Professor of Theatre Arts at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, where he taught acting, directing, and playwriting. He directed well over a hundred plays during his thirty-eight years of teaching. A few favorites include: Candide, Macbeth, Death of a Salesman, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, and The Threepenny Opera. He is the author of five poetry collections: Monsters in the Rain, Art Work, Waiting on the Last Train, Rubber Time, and Preserving the Past for the Present.

Follow Feed the Holy

The Mountain’s Child by Krystal Gauley

Юлія-Марія Повх

The Mountain’s Child

It began when I was young, 

taken from the city

and placed upon her rocky spine.

Though many, with conviction, 

call her wild—fierce, untamed, 

a place children should fear, 

I knew her only as mother. 

When my lungs burned

from cigarette smoke,

from tar that stained the confining walls,

she unbound me, reaching deep into my chest, 

clearing the stagnation, 

drawing long, deep breaths from me,

returning air scented with pine and rain.

Clean. Alive. 

When my ears ached

from the assault of curses, shouting, and rock ‘n’ roll

rattling through the halls, 

she soothed them,

her breath a soft touch upon the leaves,

calling forth a choir of sweet melodies,

lifting me above the chaos. 

When the stench of liquor 

on his breath

lapped at my cheek with the promise of attack,

freezing my limbs in silent terror, 

she unfurled herself,

a fortress of bark and greenery,

branches bending like arms,

hiding me within the canopy of her trees, 

where no one could follow, 

where I grew wings. 

When my body shrank to hide

from anger,

from fights, the uncooked hamburger

thrown across the room,

she lifted my spine, 

tilting my gaze from the floor to the horizon,

anchoring me with the weight of her presence,

roots sinking deep beneath my feet, 

so I could rise, 

tall, steady, 

unbroken. 

When my belly ached from TV dinners,

mashed potatoes shriveled to crust in the corners, 

cranberry sauce collapsed into gelatinous goo,

she eased the pain with clover and honeysuckle,

nourishing me with blueberries, 

with trout pulled fresh from the stream. 

When the absence of a loving embrace

and the uncertainty of their return

weighed heavy on me,

she held me in the hollow of her hidden caves, 

reminded me of strength,

let me etch my name into her living heart, 

where it would remain. 

Not a hardened crown to be feared, 

but a mother of endless embrace, 

she breathed life into my lungs, 

smoothed the jagged edges of the noise, 

gave me wings to flee the predators I knew, 

showed me how to rise and stand tall, 

fed my hunger,

quieted my trembling fears. 

In the curve of her arms, 

I was wholly, unshakably loved. 

© Krystal Gauley

Krystal Gauley

Krystal Gauley is a poet and creative nonfiction writer completing an MA in English and Creative Writing. Her work is rooted in landscape, memory, and embodied encounters with nature, exploring emergence, stillness, and personal transformation through breath, presence, and relationships with the natural world.

Follow Feed the Holy

I’m a stranger in this land by Dennis Williams

Dmytro Kormylets

I’m a stranger in this land 

I’m a stranger 

A stranger in this land

I’m where my neighbors think I’m sick

My relatives are distant 

And we never seem to meet

No one called me Mister 

I’m regarded as a tramp

They passed me daily without even a smile

I think I’m a stranger 

A stranger in this land

How did I get here? 

Voluntary or by will

I try to remember

But the image won’t stand still

I think I’m a stranger 

A stranger in this land

My cousins are a few

Their gravestones are many

I think I’m a stranger 

A stranger in this land

I walked many miles 

A willing smile aboard

I want somewhere to shed

To shed this awesome load

But no one seems to care

 

I think I’m a stranger 

A stranger in this land

I called out my very name

But no one recognized it and 

That confirms that indeed I’m a stranger

A stranger in this land. 

© Dennis Williams

Dennis Williams

Dennis Williams is a writer and Poet from Rural St. Catherine, Jamaica. He is looking forward to a good “publish 25”.  Dennis is deeply grateful to all the editors of magazines and journals who saw his work, took the time to read and appreciate it, and then included it in their prestigious publications. He would like to give a big shout-out to the editors of Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Literary Heist, Active Muse, Rundelania Magazine, and Literary Cocktail Magazine for helping him bring his dream to life.

Follow Feed the Holy

When You Make Holy the Verb, You Emily by Selma Martin

 

Photo by Wendy Maeda/The Boston Globe via the Poetry Foundation 

When You Make Holy the Verb,
You Emily

I will strip back everything as I loaf here

let the rest be absorbed like osmosis
with inner eye, I will Emily the backdrop
document till the effort is grounding

Free from forged manacles to adhere
to, will inhale deep every color I notice
focus how they penetrate my scent top
until the very tip of my head is exploding

I will Emily and avoid all entanglements
of metaphors and the foolish need to focus
on their strength to take me over the top
—the last doom of folly in speechifying

I will strip back everything as I loaf here
I will inhale deep every color I notice
focus on their strength to take me over the top
focus on Emily—who scarcely deigned to lie
—and aim to overtake creases without sermonizing

©️ Selma Martin

Selma Martin

Selma Martin is a retired English teacher with 20 years of experience teaching ESL to children. She believes in people’s goodness and in finding balance in simple living. She lives in Japan with her husband of 35 years. In 2018, Selma participated in a networking course that culminated in a final lesson to publish a story on Amazon. She completed the course and self-published her short story, "Wanted: Husband/Handyman," in 2019. Later, collaborating with peers from that course, she published "Wanted: Husband/Handyman" in "Once Upon A Story: A Short Fiction Anthology." Selma has published stories on Medium for many years, in MasticadoresUSA, The Poetorium at Starlight, Short Fiction Break, Lit eZine, and Spillwords. In July 2023, she published her debut poetry collection, In the Shadow of Rainbows (Experiments in Fiction). You can find Selma as selmawrites on Instagram and Twitter, and on her website, selmamartin.com.

Follow Feed the Holy

Cowboys Don’t Wear Red Hats by Mary Kipps

 

Виктория Билан

Cowboys Don’t Wear Red Hats

The gifts you said we’d love.

My disappointment when

you gave the black one 

to my brother,

who was more interested

in baseball.

The gift you said I’d love,

pushed to the bottom of the toy box,

unable, there, to lend truth

to the lie

it was only pretend.

Now that I’m older,

red hats still look silly on me,

but I wore one yesterday

in the garden

while, three thousand miles away,

your family buried you.

© Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.

Follow Feed the Holy

Salvation by Toyer Fahie

 

Artem Podrez

SALVATION 

All of us kneel

Needing grace 

The grains of sand 

Burn our knees

While we wait for pardon

We do not look alike 

Our needs differ

Yet we come together 

Searching for salvation

As we encircle the same cross

A cross that sees no colour

A cross that knows no creed

A cross which represents hope

So, as we lament from our breast

While we face the harshness of the sun

We will kneel

We will wait 

For redemption

© Toyer Fahie

Toyer Fahie

Toyer Fahie was born and raised in the Virgin Islands. Toyer began writing poems in her mid-teens. Her favorite type of poem to write is free verse —she writes directly from her heart. Toyer has entered local poetry competitions, which yielded winnings. She currently writes for several online journals.

Follow Feed the Holy