Poetry

To dream
Is to stand at the Gate of Creation,
arms akimbo, one foot planted firmly
at the Edge of Eternity.
The other foot solidly moored
In the Patterns of Reality.
Your body humming with the Eternal Dichotomy of advancement
and retreat as one’s life proceeds
to the warm, unknowable embrace of non-being.

Who needs magic letter-counting
or a network of psychic friends
when the last poem I wrote
was about seeing the face of God
in the rind of an orange I had forgotten
I’d left in a desk drawer the day before?

Sliding forward, upward pucker
soft and fresh, pore
to first slick of spring dew.

An ancient etymology.
Syllables underfoot
unfolding across continents,
thousand-year scroll unscraped,
each overwritten character
layering through, spelling new words
with old ink,

Cosmic Pockets
by Joann Renee Boswell
reviewed by Paul Jolly

Mary Dyer’s Hymn and other Quaker Poems
written by Stanford Searl
reiewed by Anita Hemphill McCormick

Mary Dyer’s Hymn and other Quaker Poems
written by Stanford Searl
reiewed by Donald W. McCormick