Resurrection
For Dr. Stephen C. Wright

In the mountain skies of Vermont were heaven reigns,
Remembering the night while darkness surrounded me.
Beginnings of a life of prayer with an earnest heart.
Redemption always eluded me at Sunday Mass.

Seeking absolution for all the sins which came upon me.
Night prayers left a feeling of loneliness in troubled times.
My life song came when God saved me with his grace.
Easter Sunday sunrise birds flew in the open skies.

Celebration of birth came in the quietness of morning.
Tears of joy circled my soul for the first time.
God’s beauty never fades, giving me life eternal

Sold the path through the Walls of Disbelief, 

   for nothing can still the Heart 

      than then when
    than then when
 Faith's steps time Blend 

   Delicious fruit taste
           Delicious

 I am Stupid 
      Yesterday
    & Eyes open
     taste the light 
              that 
        Hearts drink 

In waters I swim 
          Alive running

Thank you
      for the nothing
  I'm creative today & your 
      name is as good as
                mine
 Ours Creation 
         ♡
I'm Love ARE WE

      the shared
  is a lie where
       All is in 
       sharing

 Just rests

 Triumphant
    without an 
           opponent
 
You're good for the
                 nothing
 Knowing the Completeness 
     the Greatness
             unbounded freedoms
 GAMELESS Victory
           Comfort sleeping 
         on the Granite warmed
      from Beneath without a Blanket. 

         Cold as snow Drawn 
   to Life from within. 

                        Thanks for 
                 the nothing that 
                       fills my Heart 
                from within where
                      sharing has creation
              Beyond what any 
                           thought possible 
                                        to give.
              Creation is already 
                        with or without 
                               my attention to 
                                    detail. 

       Thank you for the nothing 
                 where Welcome Stands
        to fill the VOID
 
            Creation's Call 
                     My Heart Sings,
           And rises as if yours 
                 is mine all along
        without evidence the
                     LOVE Pillars 
                    Built Before 
                   time Began. 
And I'll find my cup Full
    Before You Stand to Smile
             & Pour LOVE'S Grace,
                    Knowing Full Well
                       the LOVE we share

                         Creation's damage

         Broken clocks ,  all to say,  Before & After,
 
                  Where NOW Stands the Glory! 

New Chapter

While studying your lessons 
Do you wish to open the ball of clothy imagination? 
Do you care to lighten your path 
With a delightful conviction? 
While touching the books from your shelves 
Do you realize they are your 
Guiding kingdom breathing in you? 
The scent of pages of your books is 
A perfume of true human essence 
That has been inked by magical minds 
Surpassing generations. 
It can be the world you see with your mind's eye. 
What forgiving hands hold the books! 
A well-engineered nest of comfort 
Where even a winner of the world
Takes a dive of love into another precious heart
And losses his own. 
The teachings you choose 
Make you a teacher itself, 
A lifelong student deep inside
To appreciate the teacher of purpose. 
You may teach life a new chapter every day! 

2.	Pleasure Is the Forgetful Pain
Freshness, joy 
Height of bliss! 
Solitude is a name
Of beautifully alone early dawn
Even before good morning
Is greeted. 
Recollections keep finding itself in the 
Address of deep and dark dusk. 
In nature lies the truth 
The zeal to uncover, 
The moment to capture. 
The net of will casted to
Cage the wide sky is eternity. 
Forever the sleeping time awakes 
In one moment. 
The music of the rain 
Pleasure is the forgetful pain. 
In the atom of thought 
Simplicity chooses 
To become the only clarity.

                                                                                                                 Written by Sushant Thapa 
                                                                                                                                Nepal 

I remember that I am here not because of the path that lies before me but because of the path that lies behind me. I remember that which matters most… We are still here!

Morpheus, character in the Matrix movies, spoke these words to inspire the resistance force during one of the darkest times in their long battle with oppressive machine overlords. He encouraged them to keep fighting not because they were sure to win that night, but because they had withstood many other obstacles in the past.

This quote, and the release of a new Matrix movie, makes me think of the world surviving injustice and a pandemic for the past two years. I acknowledge and mourn that not everyone has survived, and some have been left with lasting scars. That said, sometimes just living through a global crisis and remaining a person with the capacity for love, courage, kindness, humor and creativity, even without any other visible achievements, can be a serious accomplishment. Sometimes being ‘still here’ is all we can do, and we can be very proud of that.

Contributors to this month’s very large issue are all asserting that they are all ‘still here,’ and referencing the different sources of strength that have gotten them through these seasons.

Abigail George describes her psychological struggles and the medication, books and creative writing practice that keep her sane. Chimezie Ihekuna and Dave Douglas take refuge in their Christian faith, where God’s love expands their perspective on life and comforts them during loneliness and regret. Hongri Yuan, in works translated by Yuanbing Zhang, talks of stepping outside of our human experience to find spiritual transcendence.

Michael Robinson reflects on having made it through very dark times and come out the other side, while Mahbub’s speakers seek rest and solace on land or at sea.

Abdulloh Abdumominov urges us to make the most of the time we have, while Scott Kaestner shares pieces about being okay with living the life in front of you and not shackling yourself to unrealistic expectations. Duane Vorhees reminds us to ‘count the cost,’ to think of what’s involved when we seek revolution, spirituality, or wisdom.

Laura Stamps describes lives and relationships that have fallen short of our dreams, and the surprising ways we care for each other, and ourselves, at crisis points. Ashley Wang’s piece affirms relentless hope, always asserting that tomorrow will be better. Christopher Bernard resolves to take action to preserve the environment and inspire the rest of the planet to do the same. To him, we can kick our carbon addiction the same way he quit smoking.

Katrina Kaye reminisces about love and the memory of love, about small tokens of others’ presence and care. John Thomas Allen seeks to capture and personalize a bit of his abstract love, to have a token in his hand as well as in his heart. John Edward Culp compares the creativity required to adorn a canvas with the imagination required to understand another person.

Some writers bear witness to difficult times. Christine Tabaka speaks of mothers’ empty arms, the death of relationships, and other human griefs. Bruce Mundhenke captures the fear and dread of a planet under attack. Howie Good relates death and destruction in a more surrealist, darkly humorous manner while J.J. Campbell conveys the loneliness and quiet dignity of caregiving and the end of life. Ahmad Al-Khatat longs for love in a landscape depopulated after war while Nguyen Thanh Hai mourns a missing companion. Karen Boswell writes of a random memory made sweet through loss.

Susie Gharib also writes of relationships hurtling towards inevitable ends. In subsequent pieces she celebrates the life enrichment brought through travel, as Robert Thomas does with his extensive depiction of Marrakesh’s street markets. Sterling Warner’s poems incorporate more ordinary venues (cities at dawn, carousels) along with the exotic locales. Ian C. Smith’s speakers sail into maritime adventures of strength, bravery, and beauty.

Abby Ripley describes the power of thought and ideas in shaping prehistoric human lives. Far from being a luxury, imagination helped our ancestors find food and water and shelter on the savanna. Saurav Ranjan Datta also references history, celebrating the lives of powerful women leaders in a new book, Goddesses of Fury: History’s Most Daring Queens. In the spirit of the Matrix films, Andrew Dibble’s short story probes the linguistic systems created by humans versus intelligent machine-learning algorithms.

Mark Young’s impressionist literary pieces reference art, creativity, and learning by experience. Vernon Frazer’s work elides the ordinary rules of syntax, creating its own world of sound and syllable arrayed on the page. Patrick Sweeney arranges phrases on the page in a semblance of meaning. Michael Todd Steffen’s words paint canvases in homage to visual artists’ work, while Norman J. Olson reflects on his legacy of art based on the nude human figure.

James Thurgood crafts pieces that seem simple but encapsulate deeper thoughts and truths. A boy’s unevenly tied shoelaces evoke parents’ inability to ensure children’s lives will be free from risk, a teen’s romantic gesture becomes a meditation on the passing of youth.

Peter Cherches also references ordinary life, sharing the thoughts and memories coming to his mind when he thinks of formerly popular songs and TV shows.

Ike Boat promotes the writing of a children’s author and literacy advocate, Dennis Mann, while John Grey ponders what items we collect and what knowledge we seek, as some facts inevitably slip out of our grasp with time, like water evaporating from a thirsty land.

We hope that you will take comfort and find strength within these submissions and join in the literary exchange of ideas.

The calligrapher writes the landscape.    

The rain's crow quill points ink across pigeongray parchment sky and draft indelibly themselves upon an eager gravid ground   

and sins and memories, and hopes and charities, that take root, grafted into the earth, remain ensoiled past the droughts and floods to come.  
 

THE MARE'S BREAKING IN 

 

Wanting the beads and choirs too, 

she took the veil and cincture. 

But inside the now 

she regrets the vow 

since accepting the saddle  

means all the bits and spurs too.



COME THE REVOLUTION  

 

Which among you will bring sandwiches? 

And who'll organize the selfies? 

Which manifesto would you execute? 

"The sky must be purged if the earth is to prevail!" 

"The earth must be buried for Heaven to reveal!" 

Which Utopia would you provoke? 

Which of the pasts should be banned? 

But don’t be the freak hot on the runway 

or the gangster in church, 

don't be the priest caught in the whore house
the banker in the line-up.



OPIATES OF THE MASSES      

     

Crucifiction, Failosophy, Hisstory:   

Tomorrow is a myth. And so is yesterday. Now is all. 

Physicks, Asstrology, Isometricks:  

Yourself, as you are at present, is your only guide.  

Medisin, Accupunkture, Sighchiatry:  

There is no cure for reality.  

Litterature, Statuwary, Musick:  

Art is a grand mirage -- and it takes great pride in being so.  

Soshellism, Dicktatorship, Demockracy:   

All government systems are synonyms for slavery.  

Kingdumbs, Militearism, Onerousship:  

Allegiance to others is suicide.  

Noosepapers, Liebrarie. Educashuns:  

"Knowledge" so-called is mere pretense.  

Relashunships, Guarantease, Freedumb:  

Promises are illusions. But illusions may also be promises.
Ambishun, Suckcess, Sellebrity:   

Self-promotion is the greatest deception of all.  

Syphillisation:  

Truth is what you trust.




THE MYTHIC ARCHAIC CUB, HIS MANDALAS, AND ME    

   

I wait here still for the wise old man   

and his chatter of universal traits,   

how they shape my acts like hands   

on a potter's wheel (but hereditary, innate).   

   

"Archetypes are to psychology   

as instincts to biology."   

   

I sit in his psyche, peeling my mandarins,   

and wonder, is this a proper asana?   

Some tables down someone plays a green mandolin   

and my self stifles respondent hosannas.   

   

My me was always confused by the we,   

and I was never the one I used to be.   

   

I used to take my tea with cream   

but now I prefer lemon.   

Why do I have all these dreams   

about so many different women?   

   

Decades have passed like clouds over seas   

as I searched for any available lee.   

   

The minutes pass like birds in flight   

and my shadow cowers in shadows   

I interpret as monstrous daytime nights.   

Mandolinist fingers dissolve into adders.   

Duane Vorhees is an American in Thailand. Hog Press of Ames IA has published three of his poetry collections, HEAVEN, GIFT: GOR RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS, and THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES.