at the end of the
world I’d like to stay with you
if that’s alright thanks

In the distance, the nearby First Baptist Church of Montgomery
illuminates their cross gold
Like a warning to the town and all those within;
Sinners that stand, oblivious, to the might of it all.

In my hand, there is cold iron, aching my frozen fingers to the bone,
fuel guzzling through the hose.
Wind chill whips my hair in my eyes, blockin’ my view
Of the premonitions brought by morning.

In the sky, an oncoming sunrise bathes the horizon east of me in blood.
Scarlet muddles with the fading night,
As if Jesus Christ himself is an open wound
Dripping from the heavens.

Empty nest challenge
Active muscles atrophy
While biting back words
Exercise experience
Hard won but not requested

The state of the world sucks.
We have to do something; we
have to make noise and protest!
Take a picture of my sign and post
it on social media. How’s my outfit?
Do you think it goes with my sign?
Did you see the viral coffee drink?
That Revolution latte flavor will
look good in my picture. Hold on,
I need to get a video of everyone
protesting. Can you hold my sign?
Be right back, I will protest later.

You call me out beyond the shore,
Where charts grow faint, where stars seem few;
A trembling heart, a whispered prayer—
Yet trust becomes my ocean blue.

The tide may swell with roaring fears,
Waves climb like doubts against my chest;
But faith, though small, commands my soul
To walk where only trust finds rest.

Each step upon the shifting deep
Feels weightless under unseen hands;
For where I cannot see the floor,
You give me strength to brave new lands.

Lord, lead me farther still,
Past borders comfort tried to keep;
Sometimes the miracle I crave
Is simply daring faith to leap.

So I will listen to Your call,
Though winds may howl and waters sway;
For trust alone can build a path
Where feet may fail—but hearts obey.

-a haiku

My dog reaches in
for pets and I oblige him.
It comforts us both.

after Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis

to create better
lives and communities

to build a world
together we need

courage to imagine
humans and planet

as sacred
goodness and abundance

what if you and I
are the ones

we have been waiting for
all along?

Staring at Sunflowers, notice the        thick brushstrokes, animated        yellow        some sagging, decaying,        the puffiness of the florets        I’m soaking in every detail, trying to understand        trying to put myself in his shoes        look through his eyes

A woman steps in front of me. 

She pulls out her phone        snaps a picture        glances at the photo        on her phone        walks away.

The yellow I was staring at is replaced by red. 

I seethe, looking around the throng of people        gathered at every painting        snapping pictures on their phone        living by phone picture        photos they’re never going to look at again        y’all can literally google these paintings        you don’t need a picture!

I feel a hand grasp my hand        I’m still standing in front of Sunflowers        my partner smiles at me, knowingly

I inhale slow        embrace the gratitude Van Gogh wanted me to feel       move onto the next painting

I walk outside, curl toes in grass,
wait for my muse. Right away, a rooster
cock-a-doodle-doos. A rooster?
So many have chickens these days—

Yesterday, a chicken pecked at
my grandchild’s cinnamon crumpet
from our tiny table in an English garden
tea room. He clung to me: I’m scared!

But this morning, from far away,
these sounds are not too frightful—
and, like the news, I’ll keep all
at bay again today. Although

those cock-a-doodle-doos do grow
closer. Soon we will all not be tall
enough or our ancestors not birthrighted
enough, and, oh dear us—  

us with all our rainbows of zinnias.

The Blue Sweater by Marianne Peel  

Two days before her birthday
I make my annual pilgrimage to Sears Department Store.
There I will find a cardigan for my grandmother, for my Nana.
A soft pastel of a garment.  Cable-stitched.  Pearl buttons.
I reject the coffee brown, the navy blue,
the show-no-stains black.  

A hard-scrapple Lithuanian, she pressed
a heavy iron to men’s button-down shirts
in the alley factory in Shanandoah.
An Appalachian sweat shop
where she stripped down
to a narrow-strapped sundress
blooming with Sweet Williams.
But in the evening, she sought
the comfort of a sweater.  Something
to keep the December parlor warmer.
Hydrangea blue. 
Like her eyes.  

The sweater unraveled
between her ninety-fifth and ninety-six birthday.
Each thread un-darnable.
She could always repair anything.
Said crocheting helped her hands.
Kept her arthritis over there, across the room.
That constant, uninvited guest.  

The unraveling began at the cuff,
where butter from the pierogies and onions
had dribbled down her wrist.  That butter ‘
had oozed in between the mile-a-minute stitch, ‘
her personal trademark.   

The shoulder, too, came unspooled. 
That spot where her great-granddaughter
snuggled in and spit up the last of the milk.
The yarn on her shoulder still pressed flat
from the baby’s nuzzle.  

The sweater molted in spring.
‘The spaces between the stitches
filled with powdered sugar from the kolachi. 
She reminded me she could always satisfy her sweet tooth
by just licking the dust of sugar off her collar.  

On the forearms of the sweater,
the grease from Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips.
Mind you, she never ordered a piece of fish, or even fries.
She’d whisper to the pimply-faced boys
scooping cod out of the fryer
that all she really wanted was the batter
that crumpled from the cod.
He’d shovel a whole plate of fish batter crumbs
onto a platter, hand it to her saying,
No charge, Ma’am.
And he would wink at her.  

On her left side, where her breast used to be,
a splotch of Estee Lauder White Linen perfume.
Just for fancy occasions, she’d say. Not for
going down to the auction in Frackville.
Not for playing cards for pennies.
But for church, yes indeed. 
The fragrance co-mingled with her rosary. 
She told me the Virgin Mary herself ‘
came to her once, in a dream.  Told her
she never fancied the musty aroma of incense. 
That she wanted to borrow my Nana’s White Linen
to blot out the stench of the holy incense.  

And on the collar of her sweater, ‘
Geranium Red Royal lipstick. A kiss of a color. 
Always applied in the kitchen,
in a mirror etched with pansies.  

When she no longer remembered my name,
I unraveled that whole sweater.
Wound the yarn into a sturdy ball.
Crocheted a blanket that holds her warmth
on my lap, around my shoulders.  
An immortal, infinite embrace.