Simmering with strain. Fault lines beneath the strain.
Enclosed
Enclosed, we outlive our closeness. Beyond
the perpendicular pronoun. Warm we,
second person plural, a better answer
to the restaurant host’s “Just one?” The
hungry body needs to lose itself,
without strangling dangling participial
others thirsty for speakeasy taunts, as if
proximity meant all one, Alwun House,
a performance space in our western village
bloated with population. In twos, shucking
the status of MVP, a threnody
before the spotlight on one deemed ideal
for the role of icon according to
the ministry of prey, overcast
with envy to carry forward an urgent,
inextinguishable senseless oneness.
Recidivist
I’m on my way to taintthe glyphs on trees. Freeze frame light of day. Board the traipse-mobile and go away (I’m on my way). Cliffs splay clipboards at play. Way north of gerunding, God willing. Recidivist splay. Rebel against the gains on hilltops retrieved. A reprieve. Scope sequenced to fault the slow learn. Slow burn fallen (through). Who teaches you, the few. I wrap my head around the wrap around my head.
Trawling the score named evermore, free lit freeway, smell of hay
Underpainting
Braille hums
haptic heft, a fuse
lurking around
future romp. Pomp
and cirque-de-soleil.
Summer gardens
opaque with shine.
Toots Kinsky matte
finish. Surface gloss
gone tame. Outer
glass rough with
source code grains.
With / Draw / All
With.
Draw. All
morning.
Raw
mourning. A longing.
ensconced in
brother
broth once
fair-minded, now
un-
mended
sweat on brow.
Practiced
preach. Long-
sleeved feral.
skeet
shot blood
on window
missing
target by way
of cheap wheels.
Husbandry
Roller coast me close
to breeze viatical (remember
expectation. Bluebottle dit
dot (pairs sans need
(pared just enough
for early breath. Shaped
pear pearl lid plot
half
injurious day-
glow (run from
penury (slow
return to place-
based pain). Stain-
cropped (drum
plain page boy
buoys no sprite
Just spit
(split lip
Sheila E. Murphy. Appeared in Fortnightly Review, Poetry, Hanging Loose, others. Forthcoming: Escritoire (Lavender Ink). Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). Gertrude Stein Poetry Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003). Hay(ha)ku Book Prize for Reporting Live From You Know Where (Meritage Press, 2018).
Curious, I consulted a psychic who confirmed what my chart had suggested: that my family had endured shame rooted in a past event—something that happened long before I was born. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my writing was somehow tied to this revelation. So I asked my father about our lineage, and he quietly shared a difficult truth: that his great-grandfather was a Dutch slave master, and his great-grandmother had been an enslaved woman in his household. He directed me to his eldest sister, Aunt Daphne, for more.
Aunt Daphne told me what little she knew about “the Dutchman”—that he was both a pastor and a Justice of the Peace, and that his name was Cornelius. The moment she said his name, I froze. Cornelius was the name of the grandfather pastor in the story I had written all those years ago. I had even described his favorite candy as licorice—a detail that, to my surprise, is a traditional Dutch treat. It was in that moment I realized I hadn’t written a work of fiction after all—I had written a remembrance. My hands had merely transcribed what my spirit already knew.
That was when I knew this story wasn’t meant to stay on a hard drive. It was meant to be shared—both as an act of remembrance and as a tool for healing. The research wasn’t traditional, but it was guided—by dreams, divination, and a deep listening to my lineage.
Question #2:How much of this book is from your ancestry and how much is made up?
To be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure where memory ends and imagination begins. When I first began writing Leaves From the Vine, I had no conscious knowledge of what I was channeling. It wasn’t until I later explored my family’s history that I began to see startling parallels—details in the story that echoed my great-great-grandfather’s life and the legacy of his descendants.
That’s why the imagery is somewhat elusive, set in a quiet town “in the middle of nowhere,” a place that could be anywhere—or nowhere at all. It reflects that sense of mystery and ancestral whispering. What I did craft intentionally was the dialogue, the rhythm of the language, the emotional texture. I used artistic license to shape the tone—infusing it with wit, symbolism, and sentiment.
And while the story is deeply rooted in family lineage, I also chose to include something profoundly personal in the Afterword: the Invocation for Sacred Sexual Embodiment (from the Ascension Glossary). That was my offering—a healing remedy for those navigating sexual trauma. While that part isn’t inherited from my ancestry, it’s a conscious and heartfelt contribution to the legacy of healing.
Question#3: How do you think people reconciled being people of faith, and even pastors with being slave owners and perpetuating injustice?
I’m not sure they ever truly had to reconcile it—at least not in a way that disturbed their sense of righteousness. Many slaveholders, including pastors, used scripture—like Ephesians 6:5—to justify the institution of slavery. Verses such as “Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear…” were interpreted literally, providing a moral and religious rationale for what was, in truth, a deep injustice.
But faith without compassion becomes blind obedience. And privilege, when left unchecked, can distort one’s understanding of justice and mercy. In many cases, those in power may have believed themselves to be the ones under threat—viewing any resistance from the enslaved as rebellion rather than a cry for freedom.
This perception of fear allowed them to see themselves not as oppressors, but as protectors of order, which further reinforced their actions. It’s a painful paradox: using faith as a shield to avoid reckoning with cruelty. And yet, it’s this very contradiction that makes the truth so vital to examine today—with humility, not blame.
Question #4: How do you think it’s possible to break generational curses or generational patterns of course dysfunctional behavior?
Breaking generational curses isn’t just about changing behavior—it’s about transforming identity at the root. We must approach healing as an act of Identity Alchemy, a sacred process of rewriting the unconscious contracts we’ve inherited.
First, we must Expose the Ancestral Root—identify the patterns that have been passed down, the pain that still echoes through our choices, and the beliefs we didn’t even know we adopted.
Then we Shock the Pattern with Radical Reversal. That means doing the opposite of what the curse expects—speaking the truth where silence ruled, choosing joy where shame lingered, or creating boundaries where chaos thrived.
Next, we Implant a Future Memory by consciously visualizing and anchoring a new narrative—one where we are free, whole, and deeply loved. The subconscious doesn’t know the difference between memory and imagination, so we use that to our advantage.
We then Sever the Quantum Energy Cords, energetically and emotionally cutting ties with the trauma and limitations that no longer serve us. We release the old without fear. Finally, we Embody the One Who Was Never Bound—our truest, most divine self. This is the version of us who lives not from pain, but from power. Who walks not in shame, but in sovereignty.
This is how we heal—not just for ourselves, but for those who came before us and those yet to be born.
Question #5: Did your ancestors ever repent of enslaving people and how might we begin to heal that wound as a country?
Yes (my great- great -grandfather)—he’s repenting through me, his descendant, his soul-scribe. Through my voice, he’s asking for forgiveness. He’s sorry for abusing his power and manipulating his privilege to oppress others. He now understands—through my own suffering—that in enslaving others, he also enslaved himself: to greed, to ego, to the seduction of control.
He became a prisoner to the very forces he thought he controlled. A prisoner to fear, to lust, to legacy. Slavery robbed his victims of their freedom—and robbed him of peace, love, and the humanity that connects all souls, even across lifetimes.
His spirit seeks redemption now. He knows that true power doesn’t require domination. That true privilege uplifts rather than oppresses. And that true faith is never rooted in fear.
The wound of slavery cannot begin to heal if we continue to reopen it—whether knowingly or unconsciously—through daily practices rooted in a painful past. Each time we glorify “soul food” without acknowledging its origins in survival, each time we discipline our children with the same tools once used to control, each time we overlook the spiritual traditions of our ancestors in favor of the religion that once justified their bondage—we unknowingly press salt into the wound.
On the other side, the wound festers in silence each time privilege built on slave labor is denied or dismissed. Every benefit drawn from generational wealth, every institutional advantage, every opportunity rooted in the unpaid labor of others—left unacknowledged—prolongs the ache.
Healing begins when we commit to the uncomfortable work of unlearning: unlearning inherited superiority, and also unlearning generational servitude. It begins when we honor the full truth of our history—not just its victories, but its violations. Only then can we move toward wholeness—not as separate sides, but as one people reckoning, remembering, and rebuilding.
Question #6: How can individual people begin to make amends for systemic injustice put in place by their ancestors?
I’m not entirely sure there’s a single answer, but I do know that making amends begins with a willingness to sacrifice comfort for justice. The obvious place to start would be to embody the spirit of modern-day abolitionists or even modern-day hippies—people unafraid to disrupt the status quo in the name of equality and compassion.
To truly make amends, descendants of those who benefited from systemic injustice must first acknowledge that they’ve inherited not just wealth or status, but also a moral debt. And they must be willing to pay it forward—not in shame, but in service. This might mean using their influence to challenge systems that favor them. It might mean divesting from privileges that came at others’ expense.
But here’s the real question: Who among them is willing to risk losing inherited power, privilege, or prosperity for the sake of justice? To go against the grain of their lineage? Because making amends is more than a performance of empathy. It’s a courageous reordering of values—a revolutionary act of love.
Question #7: What role does faith play in Leaves From the Vine and why/how can faith and spiritual practices help people?
Faith is the heartbeat of Leaves From the Vine. The town of Charlestown itself is built on a foundation of faith, family, and fellowship—where the Big Church stands not only as a place of worship but as the town’s schoolhouse, meeting hall, and sacred ground. It’s quite literally the center of their lives. So when young Jones Jr. begins to question his Christian beliefs, it shakes the town to its very core.
But as the story unfolds, we see how each character is tested. Jones Jr. must find faith in himself to lead the church when his father falls ill. Mrs. Jones clings to her unwavering faith that her son is still alive, even when others doubt. The twin sisters, Anna and Annie, draw on their shared faith in each other to face the nightly hauntings.
Every soul in Charlestown is pushed to their limit—but it’s their faith, especially faith in the power of love, that ultimately breaks the curse. Faith helps people by creating a sacred space for love and joy to dwell—even when the world outside feels harsh or unkind. It serves as a spiritual retreat, a quiet refuge from life’s noise and cruelty.
When doubt clouds the mind and uncertainty shakes the soul, faith becomes the balm that steadies us. It reminds us that we’re not alone. That there’s something greater, something divine, that holds us even when we can’t hold ourselves. Faith gives people something to believe in, especially when belief in themselves feels like too much to carry. It softens the edges of pain and sharpens our vision for hope.
At its most tender, faith teaches us gratitude—for the small mercies, the everyday miracles, and the unseen grace that carries us forward.
Question #8: Why did you write this book and what do you hope to accomplish with Leaves From the Vine?
I wrote this book because I began to sense that I was simply the messenger—entrusted with a story that needed to be told. Over time, it felt less like something I was creating and more like something I was uncovering. I came to see myself as a voice for my great-great-grandfather, someone whose truth had long been buried. Through me, he could finally speak—offering confession, seeking redemption, and hoping for peace. In telling his story, I also hoped to bring healing to his descendants, including myself, and perhaps offer a mirror for others to reflect on their own generational wounds.
This book is my personal call to courage. I hope it inspires others to bravely uncover their own family stories—the ones hidden in silence or shame. I want readers to feel empowered to confront the spiritual and emotional battles their ancestors may have left unresolved. My hope is to awaken a generation that seeks healing with humility, gives and receives love with openness, and chooses to leave behind a legacy rooted in truth, honor, and redemption. If this story stirs even one person to begin that journey, then it has done its work.
Question #9:Who are some of the authors you admire?
I admire Iyanla Vanzant for her bold, unapologetic voice and her willingness to speak from personal experience. In books like Yesterday, I Cried and In the Meantime, she holds herself accountable for her own shortcomings, and that honesty creates space for true healing. I respect that she doesn’t just “preach” to her readers—she walks the talk and invites others to do the same.
I also admire Caroline Myss, particularly for her work in Sacred Contracts, where she introduces the idea that each of us is born with twelve core archetypes that shape our purpose and path. Her teachings helped me recognize the unconscious roles I’ve played and the agreements my soul may have made before coming into this life. That framework has been key to understanding both personal and ancestral patterns.
Don Miguel Ruiz, through his book The Four Agreements, helped me embrace a liberating perspective—especially the powerful lesson of not taking things personally. That one idea alone has protected my peace more times than I can count.
Lastly, I admire Eckhart Tolle for his deeply grounded spiritual wisdom and his conversational approach to writing. The Power of Now is structured as a dialogue, which feels intimate and refreshing—especially for those of us raised in spaces where questioning was discouraged. His work helped me come home to the present moment and discover freedom in simply being.
Each of these authors has been a guidepost on my own spiritual healing journey, and their work quietly echoes through the pages of Leaves From the Vine.
Poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.
Also, the Educational Bookshop in Jerusalem, a store that has the mission of peaceful dialogue and education, invites readers to donate new or gently used books (all genres) that have been meaningful to them, with a note enclosed for future readers about why the books were meaningful. (The books don’t have to be about peace or social justice or the Mideast, although they can be). Please send books here. US-based Interlink Publishing has also started a GoFundMe for the store.
We’re also having a presence at the Hayward Lit Hop festival this year, and we encourage everyone to attend this free, all-ages event! Many local writers will share their work and we will also host an open mic.
This month’s theme is Journeying Inward.
Lidia Popa seeks her true self, believing in the value of her quest. Samira Abdullahi acknowledges her scant resources and the obstacles before her, yet bravely forges ahead towards her life’s goals. Xavier Womack expresses determination to stay free of a relationship that has turned controlling and toxic.
Maurizio Brancaleoni crafts bilingual English/Italian introspective vignettes. Philip Butera reflects on noticing different types of flowers throughout his life, paralleling his different moods. Christina Chin of Malaysia and Paul Callus of Malta collaborate on haiku resplendent with action and sensory detail about the minutiae of human life, highlighting how even smaller thoughts matter.
Charitha Jammala’s mystical poetry probes the depths of the human mind and soul, celebrating our inner essence and integrity. In elegant poetry, Haroon Rashid reminds us to look inward to find joy and peace rather than expecting it from the outside world. Alex S. Johnson revels in the dreamscape of human consciousness in his expansive poem.
Beatriz Saavedra Gastelum probes the power of dreaming to explore human consciousness in Alfonso Reyes’ writing. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam collaborate on haiku capturing the delicacy and deliciousness of creative tension and human spiritual journeys. Fatima Anisa Ibrahim depicts the peace she finds upon sleeping, waking, and beginning a new day.
Stephen Jarrell Williams’ poetic cycle drums up a sense of urgency, evoking human mortality and spiritual quests. Peter Cherches speaks of time and memory, incidents that make us, small puny humans as we are, question all that we remember. Mykyta Ryzhykh renders the dissolution of language and identity through creative poems. Alaina Hammond probes the effect of present experiences to shift memory and identity in her drama, set at an art opening. J.K. Durick’s poems also address identity in a way, pointing out human experiences we face individually, yet share with many around the world.
Philip Butera’s lengthy poem explores existence, seduction, and morality through a lens of mutable personal identity and the archetypes of Greek mythology. Two literary critics, Dr. Selvin Vedamanickam and Grock, explore the struggle of individual people in a world that seems indifferent in Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s epic poem Geet: The Unsung Song of Eternity.
Bhagirath Choudhary’s piece honors and includes the feminine as well as the masculine in what it means to be human, and divine. Jacques Fleury, a Black man from Haiti, asserts his belonging to the universal human family regardless of racial distinctions.
Patrick Sweeney writes disconnected short pieces with an element of whimsy that explore our curiosities and obsessions. Duane Vorhees’ poetry revels in earthy sensuality and explores questions of personal identity, reality, and fantasy.
Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ images focus on fun and imagination in his images of children’s toys. Ochilova Ozoda Zufar shares a children’s story about travel, friendship, and new experiences. Abigail George reflects on her life’s trajectory, how circumstances made her the mother of words rather than human children.
Elan Barnehama’s short story places us back in our early twenties, when many of us were still making major life decisions. Still, many people past that age express similar sentiments. Tagrid Bou Merhi affirms the drive towards personal and artistic freedom. Anna Keiko reflects on how she has followed the call of poetry in her life. Chad Norman’s brash poetry celebrates the freedom to do and say and love as he wishes in his native Canada.
Doug Hawley relates his experiences in the natural vastness of mountainous and lesser-known eastern Oregon. Maja Herman Sekulic’s speakers lay exposed in the city, under the weight of human emotion as much as the heat of the sun and the relentlessness of the rain.
J.J. Campbell conveys regret, despair, and the lingering effects of a broken past. Mark Young’s poetry presents with wry humor dreams pursued and derailed. Susie Gharib’s work reflects the anxiety and discomfort of the human condition and her desire to find and choose peace. John Dorsey’s speakers seek various forms of comfort and stability.
Brian Barbeito reflects on the life and death of his beloved dog, Tessa. Taro Hokkyo’s short poems speak to grief and loss, ending on a note of regrowth.
David Sapp speaks to the lingering psychological impact of physical and mental loss during the American Civil War. Dennis Vannatta’s essay explores the wartime inspirations for some of Chopin’s music and compares that with his own Vietnam experience.
Fadwa Attia reviews Mohamed Sobhi’s new play “Fares Reveals the Hidden” which explores identity, homeland, and belonging. Dr. Kang Byeong-Cheol speaks to loneliness, nostalgia, and empathy.
Atabayeva Gulshan examines loneliness through the lens of Chekhov’s writings. RP Verlaine’s work posits speakers surrounded by maelstroms of feeling, unable to do more than watch. Dr. Kareem Abdullah reviews poet Eva Petropolou Lianou’s work on the power of human emotion and the power of the individual to transcend it.
Nigar Nurulla Khalilova implores deities, and her fellow humans, for compassion towards struggling people. Eva Petropolou Lianou misses human kindness and simple pleasantries of life.
Graciela Noemi Villaverde speaks to the physical coziness of true and long-term love. Isaac Aju writes of first love between a generous young man and a strong young woman who doesn’t feel conventionally feminine. Makhmasalayeva Jasmina Makhmashukurovna encourages love and respect for the wisdom of parents.
Sayani Mukherjee rests within a Romantic poet’s verdant natural dreamscape. Bekmirzayeva Aziza’s tale reminds us not to forget as we grow up that we can find happiness through simple pleasures and days in nature. Maja Milojkovic reminds us to care for the planet, asking us some hard questions in the process. Writer and literary critic Z.I. Mahmud compares Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in its critique of humanity’s quest to micromanage and control nature.
Idris Sheikh looks to the awakening and rebirth of Nigeria from poverty and violence. Joseph Ogbonna mourns the Ottoman Empire’s genocide of the Armenian people. Marjona Bahodirova’s story illustrates the pain and loss many women in Central Asia endure, due to class prejudice and intimate partner violence. Bill Tope’s short story explores the evolution of a formerly open-minded person into a bigot and the long-lasting harm that does to his family and ultimately, himself. Taylor Dibbert recollects an encounter with an aggressive and clueless neighbor as Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s collaborative short story humorously addresses social misunderstandings accentuated by our society’s prejudices. Patricia Doyne’s poem laments political aggression, power grabs, and the rise of autocracy as Daniel De Culla laments the political danger posed to democracies by a culture of brash ignorance.
Shahnoza Ochildiyeva explores the impact of literature on the lives of characters in Markus Zusak’s novel The Book Thief. Even though books cannot save them from the Nazis, they consider literature worth the risk of their lives. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa calls on humanity to seek knowledge and cultural advancement in the pursuit of peace.
Tarane Turan Rahimli speaks to the burgeoning literary scene and cultural heritage of her native Azerbaijan. Alex Johnson’s poem celebrates the enduring literary legacy of Patti Smith and William S. Burroughs and the Beat generation. Malika Abdusamat suggests possibilities for the role of artificial intelligence in language learning. Grock outlines the work and career of Indian poet Dr. Jernail S. Anand and considers his originality and suitability for a Nobel prize.
Dr. Andrejana Dvornic, in a presentation at the Belgrade Book Festival, explores themes of love, longing, and loneliness in the works of Umid Najjari. Teacher Liu Xingli sends in poetry from the elementary school students of the Xiaohe Poetry Society in China’s Hunan Province, which explores themes of nature and society, love and compassion, and heroism and sacrifice.
Vernon Frazer plays with splashy words and images. Rizal Tanjung situates the paintings of Anna Keiko in the developing history of world art. Scott Holstad probes Husserl’s philosophical understanding of phenomena and being.
Norman J. Olson evokes the wonderment and curiosity we can experience when we look at art and history. Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photography honors the Spanish heritage of faith and craft. Erkin Vahidov reflects on Uzbekistan’s proud cultural heritage. Toxirova Ruxshona highlights advances in modern world modern medicine in her piece on diagnostics and treatment for a variety of skin diseases.
Bangladeshi writer Mahbub Alam expresses his respect and humility before God in his Ramadan poem. Jake Sheff draws on mythology and history as he memorializes his family members and other figures from the past. Nilufar Anvarova’s poem tells the story of an elder encouraging modern people to remember the past.
Dr. Lalit Mohan Sharma reviews Dr. Jernail Anand Singh’s epic work “From Siege to Salvation,” comparing the battles of the Mahabharata with the siege of Troy and affirming commonalities of our human experience. Cristina Deptula interviews Nigerian poet Uchechukwu Onyedikam about transcending cultural barriers through his international haiku collaborations.
We hope that this issue will draw you out to peek at the world from different cultural and generational vantage points, then pull you inward to consider the value and wonder of your own thoughts and psyche.
Vintage
I asked the divine rhythm to
Paint my dreamscape a little more drowsy
A Keatsian mumbling I pine for
Pine forests all around my dapple branches
The rose garden spoke a little louder
For full of grooming, a nebulous touch
The sky's limitless fantasy, a historic algorithm
Oh my godly hour I speak to my angels
For the love of vintage murmurings
A hissed purple hibiscus I care for
As the lonely hour called for the blameless rose.
Once upon a time, a little girl named Momo decided to go on a journey with her favorite animals. She took a red ball, a yellow fox, a blue bird, and a black sheep, and set off to explore wonderful places.
During the journey, Momo and her friends visited many exciting spots. They played in a colorful garden filled with wildflowers, swam by a strong and beautiful river, and listened to the lovely songs of the birds. At each location, Momo and her friends learned new things: the different colors of flowers and how they grow, how clean the river water is, and how birds find their way.
Throughout the journey, Momo learned the importance of helping her friends and understanding their needs. She also discovered how cooperation and supporting one another made the adventure even more enjoyable. For instance, they learned to play together and solve problems as a team.
In the end, when Momo and her friends returned home, their hearts were filled with joy and wisdom. Momo realized that traveling is not just about seeing new places but also about learning new things, spending wonderful time with friends, and experiencing life’s valuable lessons.
Educational Significance
This tale teaches children the importance of travel and exploration, as well as friendship, teamwork, and problem-solving. Through Momo and her friends’ experiences, children can understand the value of helping each other, being empathetic, and learning new things.
Thus, travel is not only about discovering new places but also about building friendships and learning vital life lessons.
Ochilova Ozoda Zufar was born on September 16, 2003 in Jondar district of Bukhara region. Her nationality is Uzbek. Currently, she is a 4th grade student of Jizzakh State Pedagogical University and a member of the Male and Female Gifted Students of Jizzakh State Pedagogical University and a member of the student academy. She’s the author of about 10 articles and a Mental Arithmetic Trainer…
