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

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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.

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The Woods: A Prologue by Loralee Clark

 

Matheus Bertelli

The Woods: A Prologue

In all my memories I am eight.

In spring, I walk past the boulders (no yelling)

piled at the edge of the back lawn, (no judgement)

out to the sinkhole filled with water,

inky with leaf tannins, to pretend

I was fishing; stick in hand (no baiting)

to flip the stacks of leaves at (no traps)

the bottom, pollywogs darting away.

In summer, years upon years of pine needles

cushioning the ground, (no slamming doors)

leading the way to a neighbor’s house; even 

if I was off by a few minutes, (no slapping)

I still got out to the other side.

I was never lost.     

In winter, the snowmobile tracks behind

the Cook’s trailer, curving in arcs through (no loneliness)

their property, ours, and the Holt’s.  Miles 

of mechanical doodling.

Once the ponds froze over, Stacy, Stephen 

and I would skate, avoiding the dried clumps of grass

sticking up through the ice; coming in (no martyrdom)

only when we could no longer

feel our toes and the dusk

made it hard to see. (no shouting)

In the woods: freedom,

imagination, tools for important work.  (no neglect)

Calming, predictable through the seasons

but surprising when a bird perched close, (no threats)

when a ladybug would land, when I saw 

a piece of wood chewed by a porcupine. (no intentional

                                                                        silence)

"The Woods: A Prologue" is from A Harmony in the Key of Trees: A Healing Myth (Dancing Girl Press).

© Loralee Clark

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Loralee Clark

Loralee Clark resides in Virginia; her website is sites.google.com/view/loraleeclark.  She has a book forthcoming this year, Solemnity Rites, with Prolific Pulse Press LLC, and has most recently been published in Periwinkle Pelican, White Stag Journal, Chewers by Masticadores, Nude Bruce Review, Lucky Leaves, Everscribe, The Rockford Review, and Soul Poetry, Prose and Art Magazine.

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Mirror Sadness by Julie A. Dickson

 

Niklas Jeromin

Mirror Sadness

When you hear the music play,

But only for a while

Let the forces carry you,

Allowing just a smile

Echoed voices answer

Tomorrow’s dreams are mine,

Yesterday is fading

The traces all unwind

Wander through the courtyard

Hear the silence wane

Faces mirror sadness,

The suffering to claim

© Julie A. Dickson

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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 Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, Feed the Holy, and MasticadoresUSA. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and Jojo.

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The Quiet Return by Carol Anne Johnson

Hamid Tajik

The Quiet Return

There was a time I walked on shards—
each step a whisper of the past,
echoes clawing at my ribs,
a storm behind a smiling mask.

My foundation was shaken,
cracked by hands I couldn't stop,
by words that burrowed deep and cold,
like winter never meant to stop.

Time, with quiet fingers, sews
the fabric torn by younger pain.
And in the stillness, something grows—
a fragile root beneath the rain.

I learned to speak in softer tones
to the small, afraid-in-me,
to hold her hand through shadowed rooms,
and teach her what it means to be free.

Now dawn comes in gentler hues,
and breath no longer bears a fight.
I carry scars like ancient runes—
not curses now, but signs of light.

There’s strength in every trembling truth,
in tears I no longer deny.
And though the past still hums beneath,
I stand today. I don’t ask why.

Healing isn't clean or fast,
nor does it mean we must forget.
But I have walked through fire and ash—
I am rising. Not there yet—
but rising,
nonetheless.

© Carol Anne Johnson

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Carol Anne Johnson is in her mid-40s. She is blind and was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder and complex PTSD. She is also a survivor of child abuse. She enjoys writing poetry and reading, walking, and volunteering. You can follow her on her blog, http://therapybits.com/.

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Diagnosis: MS by Lee Robison

 

Designecologist

Diagnosis: MS

I watch the sun go down–such an ancient thing— 

from before gods or the thought of gods— 

this falling sun, failing day, diminishing toward night.

More recent is our watching–more recent yet, my wariness

and the wish to hold that flame still and dam time,

hold it still in this always now 

or, better yet, in that better then of our innocence–  

amber time in an always paradise

when your flaws did not exhibit, before the diagnosis, the curse, 

before the who-you-are abjured the who you would be—

Or if I cannot halt time, perhaps lay my hands on, 

the way prophets claim healing, 

against that congenital witch in you 

that unbraids, flays the sheath, bares nerves.

O hand, o hopeless, useless hand.

Is there not a place or time under this sun 

where I might channel healing, kill wounds,

where love's touch is the all that is needed to mend 

molecule's dark calling, her genetic foreordination, 

a when where just love, 

and a parent’s hand might halt these horrors 

the gods deign on us.

No, Childe, no. There is no then or there 

where gods and prophets lend a hand to heal, 

but only this is, this 

now we have come to, down a helix of chaotic switches

that made your lovely hands and their wasting numbness,

made mine with all their useless dexterity; 

there is only this here and now, where

the sun still rises, and this morning cottonwood wool 

rafts the pond and litters the shore,

where winds tremor the ephemeral flax; 

and sunflowers bloom, will blow, then winnow this fall.

This is the all and ever of our forever

which we may make of what we will 

with what we are, flaws and all,  until we are the flawlessness of nothing.

© Lee Robison

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Lee Robison

Lee Robison has retired from Federal service. He lives with his wife in Montana on a sliver of the ranch he grew up on, a couple of mountain valleys west of The Paradise. Lee currently works as a potter, poet, and storyteller. His collection of poems, Have, was published by David Robert Books in 2019. 

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The paper boats left behind by Santosh Bakaya, Ph.D.

Oskar Smethurst

The paper boats left behind

Light from a distant house
tried to enter through cracks into her bleak room.
Why was it so bleak? Why the gloom?
What was the bleakness trying to seek?
She touched her cheek, putting her hands on her ears.
The voice of silence was callousing her eardrums
with shrieks, screams, and howls. 

She tried to block out the silence. 

Tears? Were they tears? Her dormant fears yawned.
Removing sleep kinks from her eyes, she looked around,
wanting to be embraced by a calm of forgetfulness.
But where was the calm? Where was the balm? 

Some malevolent presence was on the prowl, growling.
Lo! Some nocturnal songster started trilling,
filling the surroundings with mellifluous notes.
She was back in her village, sailing paper boats,
her chubby cheeks wreathed in smiles.
Charming nature had once again proved to be the balm.
The healing balm. 

© Santosh Bakaya 

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Dr. Santosh Bakaya

Internationally acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu, Dr. Santosh Bakaya is an academic, poet, novelist, essayist, creative writing mentor, and TEDx speaker with more than thirty well-received books to her credit. She writes a weekly column, Morning Meanderings in Learning and Creativity.com, and her TEDx talk on The Myth of Writer’s Block is very popular in creative writing circles. 

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Blue Bird by Anjetta Williams-Brown

 Erik Ding

Blue Bird

Going here and there 

Running to and fro

I saw you in Mexico

But you flew away

  Before I could catch you

I saw you in Africa

But you just circled around me

Oh, Blue Bird, oh Blue Bird

  When will you come to me

I need you ever so much

My days are long and sad

When will you make me glad

 

My child, my child 

You don’t need me 

I am the spirit of positive change

I symbolize the dawn of your new day

Embrace yourself

Embrace the person you have become

Forget the person you were

That’s the dawn of your new day

© Anjetta Williams-Brown

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Anjetta Williams-Brown

Anjetta (Anjie) Williams-Brown is a Tennessee State University retiree after 22 years of service.  She self-published her first poetry book in 2022.  She hosts three open mic poetry programs, an author/artist spotlight program, and a talk show.  She has poems in anthologies and magazines.

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