Poems of the Spirit
*A note on the cover image above:
This photo was taken by Cheyanne Leonardo at Birkenkopf – “Rubble Mountain” – in Stuttgart, Germany, where 45% of the city was destroyed during WWII. This Rubble Mountain creates the highest point in the entire city, artificially elevating the peak of an existing mountain with the destruction & debris that littered the streets in times of war. The photographer asks, what does it mean to erect an enormous cross at the top of a mountain of rubble? What are the ways in which one could interpret such a symbol standing in such a place?
On this glowing 7/7, the Dandelion Scribes present 42 Poems of the Spirit, exploring religion & spirituality in contemporary poetry. Originally inspired by the writings of Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom, this expansive theme reaches from our individual lives out into the cosmos, connecting experiences of God within an infinite web of overlap between other beings, powerful forces, and ourselves.
Some poems celebrate the kinship between the spirit and nature, while others examine spiritual wounds created by religious institutions. Some walk us through different – though parallel – versions of the church & the chapel, while others revel in the radiant energy of rivers, mountains, forests & gardens. Some recount the soul’s lessons learned along the path of life, while others mourn an overwhelming sense of loss in a world that seeks to sever us from our own divinity.
No matter the emotion expressed, all of the poems published below exist in conversation with each other and with the soul of the world. Varied experiences come together, approaching our collective truth. And they remind us that, whether we are feeling broken or lost or renewed or joyful, we always have our creativity to keep us in sacred connection with the spirit.
Featuring the following poets:
Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom
Olivia Gilreath
Guiliana Noto
Cheyanne Leonardo
Heather Matney
Mellisa Pascale
Helga Kidder
Matthew Anderson
Sheena Fry King
Dane Osborne
Blair Correll
Frances Denise
Amber Sparks
Joshua Walker (aka The Last Bard)
Bogg Switch
Angelia Ross
Amethyst Drake
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Poems of the Spirit
TAKE ME TO THE THIN PLACES
Keep your chilly chapels and perfumed wine –
these places, these props, are too bulky for me,
scramble the signals
edit the epistles,
and like an eclipse, obscure what lies
just beyond
beneath
the Here.
Take me to the thin places:
the handholds well worn by
all the souls
the seekers
the speakers
who roamed wild before
with
mud stained, holy fingers
like eyes gazing,
groping in the dark,
skin sliding over the seafoam green moss,
reading the earth like a map
of the mind
as their pilgrims' feet
find their way across the galaxies below their soles,
the light of their lanterns falling faint
against the luminousness of the lighthouses within their own chests
ready to guide us back to the places
we were told to leave.
What if (what if?)
breath
and sweat
and saliva
are the only relics I need reach for
and
what if (what if?)
supplication isn't required
but devotion could be redefined by
the willingness to wend your way,
unadorned
by the scrolls of scripture,
your bones lit from within,
walking ever onward towards your own truth,
unaccompanied by hollow hymns,
and
what if (what if?)
I dare
to mark time
by the inner ticking of my own heart
tuning it to
“the big, good thing"
(as Frances liked to say)?
Would my sacrament be turned away?
Would my gift go unopened?
Will I really burn?
Let me glimpse my ghost
being baptized in the slice of silver
on a moonlit midnight,
take down the marble tombs
men have made
to keep my ecstasy safe
(from whom?)
and
instead
wind up her stained glass wings
whose symbols tell the story of my eventual escape,
and
drenched in technicolor,
set her flying into the coal black night sky,
a comet in her own right.
“...these stones will serve you...." Thomas recalled.
I'll wear black no more.
–Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom, from Take Me to the Thin Places
⚘
SPIRIT
In silence deep where stillness grows,
Beyond the stream where no wind blows,
There breathes a light the soul can see,
Not with the eye, but inwardly.
It calls not loudly, yet all things hear—
The mountain high, the trembling deer,
The flame that dances in the heart,
The tear that falls when worlds depart.
It speaks in stars, in breaking day,
In petals soft and skies of gray.
It sings in grief, it hums in peace,
Ultimately, in each release.
O breath unseen, O sacred flame,
You burn in all, yet have no name.
You are the root, the fruit, the rain—
The joy, the longing, and the pain.
I walk the path, both lost and found,
My feet on earth, my thoughts unbound.
And though I stray, still You are near,
The voice that says, “I’m always here.”
Let all I am dissolve in You,
Like morning mist in sunlight’s hue.
No temple stone, no altar high—
But spirit vast as open sky.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
SPIRIT’S JOURNEY
In realms unseen, where whispers start,
The spirit stirs, a work of art.
A canvas vast, of light and shade,
Where mortal dreams and visions braid.
From stardust sown, a breath takes flight,
A spark ignites in darkest night.
It dances free, a flame so bright,
A beacon burning, pure and white.
Through winding paths, it seeks its way,
A pilgrim soul in disarray.
It climbs the peaks, where eagles soar,
And dives the depths, forevermore.
In quiet streams, it finds repose,
Where gentle current softly flows.
It drinks the nectar, sweet and clear,
And sheds a tear, both joy and fear.
It battles storms, with thunder's might,
And stands defiant in the fight.
It learns to bend, but not to break,
For inner strength, it will partake.
It gathers wisdom, grain by grain,
From sunlit fields and falling rain.
It weaves a tapestry of grace,
A sacred smile upon its face.
It sings a song, of love and loss,
Of bitter thorns and fragrant moss.
It paints a world, with vibrant hues,
Where hope and faith forever fuse.
It seeks connection, heart to heart,
A bond that time cannot depart.
It offers solace, kind and true,
A gentle hand to see you through.
It dances on, through endless days,
In celebration of life's maze.
It leaves a trail, for others to find,
A legacy of spirit, for all mankind.
–Guiliana Noto
⚘
ONCE UPON A FULL MOON
once upon a full moon the earth told a different story –
one where the borders were rivers,
that is to say, the borders
were fluid, that is to say
they were always changing –
always inviting
the crossing.
once upon a full moon
the people knew themselves
within the world
of the forest –
the land
alive in community –
connection – reaching
every breathing
corner.
once upon a full moon
time was a cycle
following the circle, suggesting
the spiral –
hands sifting
through the soil – that living
body – feasting
as it accepts
the descent of death.
–Cheyanne Leonardo, from 13 MOONS
⚘
FOREST (OR THE TREES?)
It takes a long time
Yet, differing speeds
For the roots to finally
Reach
Their fingers to the sky
But
Once those roots have
Taken hold
Buried long down into the earth
They will grow
Forever
As long as the Gardener
Toils their soil
–Heather Matney
⚘
WEEDING
white fuzzies
lazily voyage over
cool dawn grass,
though Wish-making
is not my usual craft.
cannot tell where it fits
with the other stuff.
Fate—the path determined.
Free Will—the path fashioned!
Wish-making—
the free pass? the proceed to go? the big break?
maybe it’s one thing
Fate and Free Will
can agree on: a Wish
is a nuisance.
‘Could you work it in
as a result of that absurd thing
she tried last week?’
‘Negative. Could you
drop it at the wayside
just this once?’
‘Even if I could,
she would miss it!’
Dandelion,
weed of all landscapes!
i pulled you up,
now i let you be.
don’t know now if
i should be pulled up,
or if i want you to let me be.
–Mellisa Pascale
⚘
WEDNESDAY
Like smoke, fog rises from trees,
smudging the ridge into clouds.
The sun’s kiln snaps peonies awake,
opens silky buds that pouted all night.
We air the bed, our hub of dreams,
spin the wheel of the day.
Squirrels natter in yews as a cardinal
sings for seeds and flames the sky.
We know the creaking sounds
of the wheel, the scars left behind.
As a doubter snuffs out the day’s flame,
a puff of smoke still perfumes air.
–Helga Kidder
⚘
A VOW
the system is connected.
the body breathes as one.
a single limb afflicted
leads us to become
a body, bruised and weakened
‘til we strive to heal the wound –
my brother is my body
as the bird is his own tune
taking shape within the throat
and flying from the mouth –
i made a meagre medley:
my instrument, a vow
to care for every creature
from frog to whippoorwill
singing in the swamps and trees
until the air is still –
–Cheyanne Leonardo, from 13 MOONS
⚘
THE RIVER THE DAME
The river, she’s the only dame
who don’t spit in my face.
Cold and steady, she runs,
no lies, no promises,
just a wet slap of truth.
I drag my bones to her banks,
soul beat to hell,
half-wantin’ to sink,
to let her swallow me whole.
But she don’t play that game
she churns, she cleans,
rinses the filth of this cheap life
off my skin, out of my skull.
Each time, I crawl out reborn,
head clear as a busted bottle,
sharp and empty.
Take me to her,
where I’ll lay down one day,
not yet, but soon,
and let her wash
this lowdown grime away.
–Matthew Anderson
⚘
Our home is under threat once more,
As outsiders knock upon our door.
They promise growth, they speak of gain,
Yet only leave a trail of pain.
For years they’ve come, for years they’ve gone,
Building their riches while our land is withdrawn.
They claim prosperity, yet we see,
Only scars etched deep in history.
They seek to spread their waste,
Doubling the harm with reckless haste.
Upon our streams, forest of lush trees,
They will cast shadow of death and disease.
As the waters flow, the rivers speak,
Loud and strong, our currents aren’t weak.
The Big South Fork, so pure, so deep,
Being threatened now by the greed they seek.
But we won’t bow, we won’t break,
For our children’s futures are at stake.
We stand as one, raising our hands,
To guard our home and protect our land.
The people speak, the people fight,
For what is just, and what is right.
Let leaders hear, let justice shine,
This land, this life – forever yours and mine.
–Sheena Fry King
⚘
SUCH IS THE HUMAN CONDITION
If purity is the sun then we are all Icarus.
White Plastic wings flayed by the heat and we drown
Before having any chance for repentance.
Such is the human condition:
When the arrogance of mortal invention
Is greeted by the inevitability of nature's wrath.
Whatever you summon into your heart has the ability
To create and destroy.....so be careful what you summon and if you are destroyed? Then make sure you earn your destruction with bravery and honor so other limited mortals may worship you after your death.
What every soul trapped inside a human body craves and so violently desires: to be worshipped by others after death.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
A SINNER’S HEAVEN
I want no harps
Give me rock and roll
Forget the Angel wings
Give me my mother’s arms
Halos I can do without
Give me poetry
I have tasted Heaven
And all you ask of me
Is to give it all up
For thee
For life everlasting
For a life unseen, undreamed
I am no good at falseness
There is my death and my desire
I can toe the line if it pleases
But did Jesus?
Let my everlasting be
Filled with my own limitless ecstasies
–Blair Correll
⚘
ASCENSION
She CAN so
Therefore, naturally
She fuckin' WILL
Precisely – just that
In perpetuity
Forevermore
–Heather Matney
⚘
ROMANTICS
Thou shalt have no other gods
Before me is the dream of life
That which obsesses me like
The poets who could build a world
With a blot of ink because they saw
What is hiding from the waking who
Walk with eyes on the ground like the
Dirty worms who mouth at the soil
Gorge on earth and death and they
Never look up at the god-like daisies
Only aware of them by their shadows
But God is in the in between spaces
Waiting like treasure to be discovered
Only those with closed eyes can see it
–Blair Correll
⚘
PRAISE THE MYSTERY
I praise the mystery
Of the soul that dies yet does not die
Of what is real and unreal
Which becomes the tender mask of your face
That personifies ever so graceless anxiety when you greet me
Alone and alive lost in those already forgotten days
Of Summerland.
Days that have nothing to do with Tomorrow or Yesterday.
I see your eyes.
Your eyes stay clean and dark with clever kindness
And a shine that reflects the cosmos.
I look past that shine
And why
Just why
Do you have to feel hurt like everybody else
Who cries all day in the cosmos?
Find peace will you please, Daughter Of The Sky?
Even for days that have nothing to do
With Tomorrow or Yesterday.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
TUNNELS
Neither love nor violence
Your thoughts or mine
Exist
In a vacuum
All tunnels bleed
Into each other
The chords are there
Though faint to some eyes
They are alive
And ever-present
Beating, pulsing
Breathing
Cosmic earth reaching
And receiving
Each microbe
Each fading star
Is its own nebula
Sharing notes, harmonies
The lifeline
Translated into
The oxygen
That flows through your veins
And into your rivers
Into
The light in
Your smile
And wet eyes
Slow-carving wrinkles
Tracing shivers down your spine
May it be comfort
Or crime
True loneliness
Is in fact
An impossibility
A tightly-woven
Persistently-fabricated
Lie
–Frances Denise
⚘
THESE GODS THAT MADE ME
Fits of aborted beginnings
Beset by unholy endings
Legs move and breath unfurls
Clicking hands on the clock face of fate
Eyes shuddering open but
Should they have remained closed?
Am I a half uttered sentence?
A fist in the mouth to stop the scream
A fridge door open but forgot what I wanted
A kiss you wished on her lips but didn’t give
Like the last half breath before death
What if this is the making of me
I am seasoned and tried and verdant
Can’t we make this into something
Am I becoming something forgotten
Or am I just becoming?
–Blair Correll
⚘
BLUE
If I think of this person,
is he thinking of me?
Out of nowhere, this need,
as though he called for me
from across the sea.
Most times, when life reached out
I reached back, grasped
the hand of fate,
or free will, whatever,
I held tight.
But when it came to that
blue of a glacial river,
I always had reasons why
not. Like actually answered the rhetorical
Why not?
It wasn’t even a fear of rejection,
just the fear of being too caught up
in your current. And look at me now.
I’m counting the times
my delusions have become reality,
worshipping the science
of manifestation. Asking,
Does writing solidify
what should have remained fluid?
Or can the pen carve
a canyon deeper than any I’ve known?
Look at me now—
I am forever holding
your gaze in my mind.
–Mellisa Pascale
⚘
FOR ALL THE BLUE EARTH PEOPLE
She bled for all the Blue Earth people
Who spun like mad around a yellow star
For she loved them so
But they did not know
Nor could not see
The horror behind her daybreak smile.
Mr. Universe came from beyond the galaxies
And healed away all her ache with the infinite blessings
That he creates with his mind
And now
She Does Not recall the forlorn days of the crows reign.
Love is replenished among all those lost
In blind men's Shadows.
She names the mystery
And I have no more wanderlust tears in the spell of night.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
GHASTLY TALES AND HEARTS THAT WON’T BURN
Mary bade goodbye to her babe
and her sorrow was such that
even the sky cried hail
in that sweet sixteenth year
of the newest century
without a summer.
Summer should scald, yet
when one’s body becomes a portal
for life
and for leaving,
May tends to shiver
not simmer.
“Where wert thou, mighty Mother…?”
when flesh flickered
so quickly that it was barely there at all?
Like Victor,
Mary kept all the pieces of what could never be unbroken,
heedless of the cuts the corners might make in her muscles,
and risking a bleed,
she sutured them together into something new,
gorgeous and frightening
(as being alive tends to be).
What becomes of the people,
the things,
we cannot pry our fingers from?
The June storm rages,
blows.
What will you resurrect to pass the time,
and see how you might frighten proud men
into sharing the main course with you,
a woman?
If woman’s wounds could resurrect the dead,
heaven would be empty and all our beloveds here.
I am still waiting on a trembling
great enough
to trouble the ground
and
grant me the chaos
I need
to conjure forth a future in which people past
stand like live wires and
whose chests beat with
hearts that will not burn.
Oh, Mary –
I’ve spent my life toiling to make a machine to extinguish
“the miserable monster whom I had created”
before I knew what it was that I was building.
What surgery would be required to rid me of all the horrors
lodged in the corners,
and bridge the gaps between
who I am
and who I could be
and who you never were?
Mother Mary,
if only you would consent to cobbling
me back together again –
not good as new,
but at least stuffed with courage this time,
enough that I might frighten the crows
who will come to pick at my remains
without knowing,
caring,
how they impose their hunger
upon me.
Oh, Mother Mary,
please make me
“…fearless, and therefore powerful.”
I promise to misbehave.
Oh, dear August, I would gladly accept snow
if it means
an everlasting spring
is soon to spring from all that has been lost.
Yet we are not allowed to know the weather
and
thus must choose
where to plant ourselves in the dirt
regardless of what might be blowing in from the East.
Even now my back aches
and my eyes shimmer with soon to come sleep
and I plant passion
and weed words
and splice slices of my own heart
in ways that I wish could be as filling
as you are hungry,
yet I fear I fail at fashioning a Frankenstein of my own –
the nuts and bolts and bones and skin
lay limp within the surgery,
wasted under my not quite skilled enough hands,
waiting for a maker more masterful
to make something of the mess.
Will we open our eyes to the ghosts who haunt us,
and refusing to hunt them,
host them instead?
Might you teach
even me
to beware of electrifying what has been lost
lest it calcify
and lend weight to what once was light?
Maybe flesh was never meant to be zippered together,
even with good intentions.
What we create,
we cannot control.
Perhaps, this June,
an oasis in the midst of a year full of winters,
I might still bask in the gold
and make meaning yet.
Maybe Mary did right in piecing peace together, any way she could.
Maybe we would do right to do the same:
make mosaics of all the pieces of our hearts that have shattered
so that their edges can find a way to fit together
without hurting the holder,
and the light shine through, translucent and eternal.
When all has been dissected and disjoined,
may I still be the safeguard
of your heart,
wrapped first in poetry
and then in my palm,
to sleep for always, deep within St. Peter’s?
Perhaps, I think, there is more than one way to mother a monster.
–Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom, from Take Me to the Thin Places
⚘
She’s been waiting
for her body
to feel like a sanctuary
& not just
a cathedral of grief.
In these empty halls,
religion begins to blur.
Her temple wasn’t built
for worship,
but for desecration.
The candles burn down
as you sin. & sin. & sin.
How can something so divine
be so unholy?
How can something so unholy
taste like salvation?
–Amber Sparks, from Supernova Soliloquies
⚘
BURNING STAR
I chased a light they swore would not exist,
A burning star that raged behind my ribs.
They told me dreams like mine would end in mist,
But I pressed on with fire in all my limbs.
It wasn’t hope—it was the need to burn,
To brand the night with something carved in flame.
The world had nothing left for me to learn
Except that love can’t grow beneath their shame.
I lit my soul and hurled it at the sky,
Refused to kneel or vanish like the rest.
Let cowards beg for comfort while they lie—
I’ll blaze until there’s nothing in my chest.
If stars must die, then let me split apart—
A supernova screaming from the heart.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
Frequently I’ve fallen
upon my knees
to call desecration
my sanctification.
I’ve sang hymns
from a cracked chest,
across shoulders scarred
from wings lacerated
& covertly caged.
I’ve licked blood
from ceremonial daggers,
praying only absolution
could taste this sweet.
But mama,
the descent into hell
was as quick as baptism
& though I smelled sulfur
I held my breath
waiting to
finally feel cleansed.
–Amber Sparks, from Supernova Soliloquies
⚘
HAVOC
Have you ever found yourself
Lost
In a sea of people
exalting the one
who caused you so much shame
Praises crooned like that church choir
he sings in
Every
Sunday
Morning–
loud, off key, and clueless to the truth
What a fine human
to those he's offered good deeds
but those aren't the only things
he's done dirt cheap
What an abuse of power
when he was meant to empower
a young, unbloomed flower
That's the kind of dirty
that won't come off in the shower
Please don't tell anyone about our
time together
The truth is hard to bear
when a toothy grin
a smooth word
and a good ol’ boy discount
cover up any sin
–Bogg Switch
⚘
HOWEVER BAD THE SIN
Tell him what you’ve done wrong.
Don’t be afraid.
Do what he tells you.
The first and only time I smeared the truth
across my mouth
to make it tasty enough for your glutinous ears
I almost choked.
Stiff with white lace
not yet nine
resigned to reconciliation,
I understood what it meant to spill my secrets
while wishing they could be all mine for all time
wondering why I would only be worthy of looking in the eye
of being held
after the thoughts and deeds and feelings
– filthy enough to stain all that was clean –
were cut from me
like a cancer.
The stretch of years when I was invited to knead my shame
into bread
sweet enough for you to eat,
your tongue, big and dark.
I won’t surrender a crumb to you.
I have never been the saint people prayed I would be.
I will not be the idol
you worship
to keep your own follies
tightly wrapped
like relics
in the forbidden recesses of your parsonage.
The last and final time I was invited to crush my peace
into wine
dark enough to get you drunk on all you say you know,
I was supposed to admit all the ways
I wasn’t worthy of love
I could not bring myself to hide behind the screen
accept the sickness
you insisted ailed me
even as I breathed easier than ever before.
I am Lazarus, risen. I won’t lie back down.
I haven’t visited since
but God can rest easy,
for others have taken up the task
of impressing the importance
of pressing confessions from my lips –
so well, in fact,
that they soon could retire,
for I became my own pontiff
with no need for anyone camouflaged in cloaks
to tear me open
tacking up all the red, raw pieces of me
for all to see and feast upon,
torture me with notions
of the Monster I was made to fear I am.
I’ll run from her no more.
I will seek her out.
And when I find myself in the forest,
padding quietly beside that unnamable wildness,
pulsing with life that will not be confessed or pressed,
I will know She agrees.
I am Lazarus, risen.
Let’s away.
–Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom, from Take Me to the Thin Places
⚘
MONA
She looked around
Suspiciously
Tentatively
Satisfied
So this place does exist?
This place
Where there is nothing left
To conquer?
“I knew it"
She whispered
As if the floor would fall in
If anyone heard
She felt
Her body
Filling up
With a different
Kind of fuel
And she wept
And she leapt
Then she kept her cool
But if you look very carefully
Her smile tells it all
–Frances Denise
⚘
DISTORTED DOCTRINE
Godspeed to the holy behind thy pulpit
may revelation and judgment come quickly
The truth shall set free your oppressed
as the abused cast off their shackles
and release them upon your chest
Your flock so full of beasts
hand picked and hand washed
No black sheep are welcome
Only fleece as white as snow will do
to spin the wool you pull over the eyes
of those who blindly follow
So scrub clean that register
Erase the iniquitous
As you feign moral superiority
Cast out those you deem unworthy
of the love of Christ
Deny the prodigals
a path back home
While we may not be present
as you take attendance behind closed doors
When the roll is called up yonder
We'll be there
–Bogg Switch
⚘
GRANARY BURYING GROUND
Running to catch a train at Park Street
so I can make it to my therapist on time
my lungs burn with the frozen air
as if I am smoking a cigarette made of the Atlantic
cold church bells strike six
my heart pounds like a drum
marking the beats of time that I have to keep making my way through
as tiny anxieties threaten to mutiny my self.
My soul feels like a stranger to my skin
and I feel homesick for a land I come from
but have never been.
Running past the Granary Burying Ground I don't slow at all,
but sense the souls sleeping beneath the stones, forever slumbering.
Their bodies once so alive,
they may have also felt homesick for a home across the sea,
and yet pressed forward,
learning the shape of a new world and with it,
the contours of their new selves.
Flesh and bone, now iron and stone, dreams now dates and dashes.
My lungs burn and my heart beats and my breath bursts out of my mouth like a steam engine
barreling onward or a dragon fiercely fighting a knight.
My heart breaks a little.
To be so alive in such a world as this.
My heart slows a little.
To be so alive in such a world as this.
–Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom, from Wild Unfolding
⚘
THE GHOST OF A DOG
When you were my master,
I was loyal unto you,
And when others abandoned you,
I was always there to comfort and love you.
But this is how I am repaid
For all my years of love and loyalty?
By letting me lie here in the open air,
While maggot worms feast upon me
And my foul stench sickens the innocent.
Oh, how blind I have been!
My loyalty and love were in vain
Because you, my wicked master,
Felt nothing for me!
Now, I can see that you were
And are without honor and respect!
Even for the dead!
However, I cannot seek revenge,
For I pity you because without loyalty,
Love, honor and respect
You are already dead.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
LIFE – BEHIND THE SHELF
after Emily Dickinson
where is the line / twixt
life and death –
survival until
the very last breath
then back to the belly
of being itself –
she says there’s
Life – / Behind the Shelf
where old books had fallen,
forgotten and sad,
knowing the healing / power
they had –
could help us remember
the Life we had lost –
eternal garden
gone grey with the frost –
the elixir was written
on unread page –
black inky liquid
shaped by the age –
–Cheyanne Leonardo, from 13 MOONS
⚘
A CHILD'S LOVE LETTER TO THE WORLD
I am no martyr
No doormat
No victim
To your
Pain, your doubts
Your oppression
I am not
At the mercy
Of your fear-fueled
Imagination
I came here
Warmly
Full of love
Full of peace
Eyes of wonder,
Eternal
I am here
To witness
Your wars
Your images
Of shattered glass
Your lessons of hate
Your disconnection
Your dreams, your life
Sacrificed
To a whole realm
Of limitation –
Because, but, what if?
I can't, I won't, I will
I see, I hear
All this
Noise
And I love you still
–Frances Denise
⚘
BIBLE BELT
Find the one
to match your shoes
Cinch up your Sunday best
Climb into the car
put on a smile lest
someone see who you truly are
when you aren't beneath that steeple
You spew The Truth
from the safety of your pulpit
a shield from repercussions
your messages bring upon the innocent
“Go and spread the Word"
you instruct your flock
“God will bless you ten-fold
but I need your ten percent first."
Sitting pretty
next to beautiful stained glass
is the only way to act
inside the sacred walls
Be in the right seat
at the right time
beside the right people
or you'll be ostracized
the rumors will fly
Religion will ruin your life
and I understand why
They say there's no hate
quite like Christian love
You wonder why you're preaching
to a room of empty pew backs–
Because it's impossible
to hate people unto the feet
of a loving God.
You told the black man
his life isn't as valuable
You told the gay kid
they're an abomination
You told the woman
to close her mouth and take it
You told the least of us
not to tell your little secret
All the while
Jesus Wept.
Your righteous judgment
overlooked the log in your eye
People begging for hope
found nothing but hurt
So I ask you this–
Did the belt they used
match your Sunday shoes?
–Bogg Switch
⚘
THE CHAPEL BENEATH THE LAKE
I found a chapel drifting through my chest,
Its steeple stitched from smoke and lullabies.
A choir of moths had made the altar nest,
And hymns bloomed soft beneath translucent skies.
The priest was made of embers and of air,
He poured me tea and spoke in braided flame.
He said the gods forget the names they wear—
That silence is the echo of a name.
The pews were filled with shadows from my youth,
They hummed a song I hadn’t sung in years.
And though I’d lost my language and my truth,
I kissed the lake and watched it catch my tears.
I left unsure of wrong, or right, or real—
But every tear became a light to feel.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
NEW BIRD
Just when I am ready to slip under
and
surrender to the slings and arrows,
knowing I’ve seen enough
certain that I can’t face another midnight, some small speck of a spark
alights
and burns my skin
and lets me know that I am still here.
A cosmic match that begs me
to doubt the despair,
to wonder about my faith,
to entertain
the hope that there might be more to glimpse
in all the tomorrows I fear.
Oh God, please let there be more.
After almost four decades of familiar wings,
I might just come to the gate of Frances’ garden,
her century old roses wrapping me
in blushing pinks and reds,
their cool petals and sunrise scents
calling me back home
to this place that I’m meeting for the very first time,
like an old friend.
As the noon sun glows in greeting,
I just might see a new bird
perched on the worn, warm, red brick wall,
its feathers unfamiliar,
its song strange and silky,
its colors not known to my heart,
and
its glassy eye fixed on mine,
an invitation to stay.
I may just know what it was I was kept for.
Oh God, I hope it happens.
I might be meant to cross an ocean
for just this moment:
to see, to sense, to know
that there are still slices of world I’ve yet to
look upon, to love.
I’ve begun collecting scraps of what is, scratchy and wilted,
from which to build a nest of what could be, wild and strong.
Someday, perhaps, this unexpected raft might agree to
bear me over the white foam sea
and I will stand rooted like an oak
barefoot in the green grasses,
beneath a warm sky,
breathing easy,
with
forty thousand new birds to meet.
–Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom, from New Bird
⚘
LAST
I don't want to rush
Through
Anything
Anymore
I want to
Go slow
Take my time
Make this moment
Linger
Just a little longer
I will never be here
Ever again
This scene
Me, in this suit
And this version
Of me
I used to take
So many
Pictures
As if I knew
How easy it is to forget
When you aren't
Truly present
Now my eyes
And my heart
Are enough
I'll hug myself tightly
I get to
Experience me
Fully
I'll cry and let go
Then start fresh
See, love
New
At sunrise
Next morning
–Frances Denise
⚘
A SUMMER DRIVE
Serpentine coils unwind
along a narrow gravel road
gripping the verdant mountain
along her undulating curves.
Unencumbered by the face of God,
zealous beneath a mid-summer sky.
Eternal, ever reaching,
and in such ardent passion
burst forth field and forest
speckled in lilac
clothed in juniper
perfect, wild, and free.
–Amethyst Drake
⚘
THE UNTAMABLE SOUL
There’s a light inside me—
not quiet, not gentle—
but wild as dawn tearing
through a sky that once held storms.
It moves like wind through open fields,
free in ways no cage can know,
a song that hums beneath my skin,
a fire that never learns to sleep.
I carry storms and sunlight both—
the weight of night, the pulse of morning—
shaped, not broken, by the dark,
like rivers carving stone with patience,
stronger for the scars they carry.
This soul won’t fold or bend or bow—
it blooms where others fear to stand,
rooted deep in grit and grace,
lifting every fall into flight,
turning wounds into wings.
I’m not just surviving—
I’m alive,
rising with each breath,
dancing through the cracks of doubt,
finding light where shadows whispered,
making whole what was once fractured.
Here, in the quiet blaze,
I am whole—
unbroken, untamed,
and endlessly free.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
TOTALITY
movement lives in my body
and the oracle said i am to dance
as if i am
breaking ground.
truth lives in my body
which has witnessed life –
ugly and beautiful
and kept a written record
within my own anatomy.
memory lives in my body –
not contained by the brain,
rather – in my bones, my
blood, my beating heart,
from toes to hips to fingertips
this flesh sings with awareness.
beauty lives in my body
in every blemish and bruise
responding, conversing with color –
in every wrinkle and fold
marking being as becoming
revealing the totality
of gravity
and time.
–Cheyanne Leonardo, from 13 MOONS
⚘
NEON REVIVAL
The city hums—
fractured prayers pulse neon,
veins of cold electric light.
Static swallows sound,
but beneath noise—
a flare relentless, alive.
Hope blazes fierce,
a wildfire waiting,
igniting dark streets,
guiding lost souls home
on waves of flickering fire.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
PERHAPS THAT IS TO SAY
you are safe here, he said,
sword held high above his head –
offering permission
for this soul to know peace.
you are not alone with
the weight of this worry.
the stars have assigned somebody,
aligned with the holy
spirit – the son and
the father, united
within it –
to hold all hope in the palm
of the infinite
and offer a way,
where one wields
a will.
perhaps the way is – out –
for there are forces we know
nothing about –
and it seems we are meant to believe
in perfection – even if the wisdom insists
we err
when we pursue it
with limits –
that is to say – apply it
to something selfish.
perhaps perfection
doesn’t always resemble survival –
that is to say – protection
can look like premature
deliverance.
you are safe here, says
the tyrian guardian.
and perhaps the time has come to trust
in the promise
of the garden –
that is to say, the place
where we shall surely
meet again –
in the form of fruit
and friend –
there where life will never
end.
–Cheyanne Leonardo, from 13 MOONS
⚘
JESUS HOLDS MY HAND
As I walk life's weary road,
I walk not alone,
For Jesus walks beside me
Holding my hand.
Yes, Jesus walks beside me
Holding my hand,
He holds my hand
Each step of the way.
As I walk life's weary road
Burdens become so heavy,
But there's no need to worry,
For Jesus is beside me,
Holding my hand.
As I depart life's weary road,
I depart not alone,
For Jesus is beside me,
Holding my hand
Yes, Jesus walks beside me,
Holding my hand,
He holds my hand
Each step of the way.
As I reach Heaven's bright shore,
Jesus says, “Welcome home my child,
I no longer need
To hold your hand."
Yes, Jesus walked beside me,
Holding my hand.
He held my hand
All the way to Glory Land.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
THE SPIRIT
where is the joy?
for that too is
resistance. and laughter
is medicine.
where is the dance?
movement is missing
here in this rigid
world where all is stiff
and sterile and sad.
where is the sovereignty?
i yearn for autonomy –
chosen in the moments
that matter – and i
will stake my power
toward collective
independence.
where is the community?
we find each other
coming together in small circles
shuffling sometimes around,
willing the widening, centering
connection.
where is the spirit?
searching – for she
who has been forgotten –
feeling – for he who
has been severed from
her.
where is the lie?
why, right in front
of our funny little faces,
looking away when
we should be looking within –
telling us we
were born in sin.
–Cheyanne Leonardo
With endless love & gratitude,
