image by Ylanite Nietjuhart, on Pixabay, modified Peacekeeping What I learned over years: pray song, songbirds, a difference between woe and wonder, between my rugged rock rambling and a gentle sky. Holding poles apart stays a habit when I cannot find words for the world, when I try to survive a closed question or no question at all fearing no one fonds me, a falling into distance. When moon cuts my arms, I rivet to own terms, and too much silence appears to be

image by claude alleva, on Pixabay Tenth Anniversary Issue of Spirit Fire Review! Ten years ago, Janine Pickett founded Spirit Fire Review. With a lot of care and prayer she tended it for several years then turned the editor-in-chief role over to me. Janine has contributed amazing personal testimonies, plus beautiful artwork and photographs. She's continued to support the journal all these years. Thanks so much, Janine! [Check out some of her work through the "Archiv

image by Andre Rau, on Pixabay, slightly modified Parochial Beginnings Working the system came early to us boys, shrewdly answering “I’ll be a priest” to Father Tom’s question about vocations, for we’d seen older boys who’d professed like us awarded opportunities others didn’t receive— never thinking ahead to our dying day when most certainly the all-knowing Lord, having read the encyclopedias of our lives as plumbers and mechanics and bankers and clerks, would gaze into ou

image from Pixabay The Diamond Maze Sunlight lies still on cemented ground, rests quietly between shadows of the trellis— an ordered maze of dark-edged diamonds, each a rigid rhombus, holding fast. Lost within the maze, I am compelled to find an exit. As my eyes search the shadows for a way out, the maze begins to tremble as, stirred by a slight breeze, wandering leaves climbing the trellis shift in and out of bright facets of light. The diamonds seem to sparkle, each

image by Zdeněk Tobiáš, on Pixabay, slightly modified All I Held I carry all of this In a broken vase It shattered when I saw you coming toward me. It was filled to the brim Then smacked upon the past And shards went flying all about the yard. But like any fragile jar I guess it never was expected to have held… And weakness might have been its very strength The water’s all spilled out Yet the ground around is dry I stare into the clouds Knowing all the while my cistern

image by Prawny, on Pixabay Warp “Don't let it faze you, kid. I've fallen into my share of black holes too...” ~ Patrick Modiano, Afterimage Nothing goes on beyond the event horizon— or everything does. Movies have made magic portals out of wormholes, plunging across timespace with an impossibly dense, matter-crunching swoop. But even the smartest among us can only guess how time and space warp beyond the infinite pressing gravity. No wormholes, the scientists say. But wh

image by sunriseforever, on Pixabay, slightly modified Staying Under Cover God, Today I cannot gather And say I’m ok. Smile and greet And pretend all is good. My bed is too comforting. To stand is to ache. So, I resist saying Goodbye to my PJs. For I don’t want to move, And I don’t want to drive. Those people are too caring. They’ve practiced perfect long enough. I don’t belong there anymore. I belong under these covers, Hidden from the world, Where it’s ok to be bro

image by Tyler Cemmensen, on Unsplash, slightly modified a haiku liturgy i Heavenly Father shine out on us from your throne; help us trust your will. ii Jesus, may your Cross cleanse our guilt, while we walk in your Resurrection. iii Holy Spirit, come; make us more like our Savior * 8/10/2008 #2 Take a knife from the drawer— not a real one, a figurative one— and cut through all that old mystical doggerel about night, that blurry gauzy flag of the stars’

image by bapreston, on Pixabay, modified The Eulogy I Didn’t Give after Bob Hicok I’ve been listening for the revving of the ‘54 Chevy’s motor Dad’s been tuning. Or the buzz of the table saw while he’s trimming cedar boards to build a hope chest for my sister. My ears perked for the metallic whack-whack of the tractor mower so I can look out the window and see he’s cutting lespedeza hay for the horses, or open the back door and sniff the air for a whiff of wild onion

photo by Cindy Bousquet Harris Psalm of the Open Field I lift my eyes to the wide blue, clouds drifting like slow prayers. The wind bends wheat in rhythm with heaven’s quiet drum. I praise the unseen hand that spins seasons from a whisper, paints sunsets across tired eyes, scatters stars in velvet dark. All creation hums its joy; I join in, voice small but willing, a single note in the eternal song. _________________________ David Anson Lee is a poet, philosopher, and p

image by Jason Gillman, on Pixabay, modified Selling Plasma Two Days After Pascha My emotions are going for the Stanley Cup and I can feel the puck drop inside me, feel the sticks scrape ice as the needle sticks a new hole in my left median cubital vein. Amber the Phlebotomist clocks the icon bracelet on my wrist and whispers, Christ is risen, grinning sweet salvation. I said, What?

rays of sun, image by Joe, on Pixabay Silence of the Lord’s Presence When I sit in silence with the Lord, Bible in hand, My heart feels full, His reassuring love Captivates my entire being, When I have quiet moments To sit in the Lord’s presence, His light pouring into me, Warming up the cold places That seem to have overtaken me, The struggles No longer overwhelm me, Not only am I comforted And assured of His grace, But I’m also reminded of who I

image by Bruno, on Pixabay Salt of the Earth He says, “You are the salt of the earth” So I water it with my tears I cry cry cry Until springtime flowers appear World wants me to lie Say that sin tastes sweet But I won’t take the bribe I won’t subscribe To an insipid life of defeat And I cry cry cry Ask people why You undervalue my God-given youth And don’t protect children from abuse I cry out to Lord Almighty That, one day, maybe you’ll taste The saltiness that saves The sal

image by Tri Le, on Pixabay, modified Kept dedicated to my grandmother When my heart aches remembering her blood-stained veins, tubes, and IV bags, Christ is my comfort. When I miss her look of delight, her speaking my name, the crinkles of her smile, Christ is my comfort. When I yearn for her, crossed over to that far-off land, where I cannot reach her, Christ is my comfort. Christ, conqueror, your sole on Death's chest, I worship you. In quest of you we journey fr

image by Somchai Sumnow, on Pixabay, slightly modified Jonah Speaks Again I didn’t get a lot out of the experience. Except this: that moment when the whale spit me out, cold air slamming into my wet, hot body, then the land slamming into me, sand sticking to the slime on my clothes, to my wet skin, gritty against my face in my eyes, in my nose. Then the rush of ocean foam, like a caress, flowing gently around me as I lay there just trying to breathe. Just in with the brea

image by Dietmar Ematinger, on Pixabay, modified Legacy The sagging chair sits, reclusive, still wears the old Bishop’s fading leather and bits of grey hair. It remains in the lighthouse, the little prayer room— watching over the encroaching sea, beckoning sailors to solid ground, as light flickers into the deep. * Tree The tree sits, weathering through time. Its trunk wears dry, crannied skin. Gnarled branches, largely bald, give off a muted

"Baby Groundhog," photo by Laura Deschenes * "Groundhog," photo by Laura Deschenes * "Springtime Sunrise," photo by Laura Deschenes Laura Deschenes is a born-again Christian. She originally grew up in the mountains of Missouri where she was able to enjoy the beauty of nature every day. Laura has always enjoyed art, writing, photography, and reading. She loves seeing her Creat

mountain stream, image by anenor on Pixabay Disposition for Praise My daily duty, duly divine Proffering honoration with heart chants Rising like sweet-smelling fragrance Of Abel’s offering of old Direction and destination is God Praise for God, to God For none deserves but God. * Overwhelmingly Sustainable At the impulse of grace showering The Spirit stirs my spirit to joy beyond joy Not leaving me, but flowing like Rivers of fresh waters.

image by SparrowsHome, on Pixabay, slightly modified Piercing the Shroud Surrounded by collisions, I feel their fragments prick the corners of my sleep. In the confusion, I stop to view a dream of the resurrection. Light spills from the feet of Christ onto me, splintered from a night of survival. I wake to the oblivion of day. Intersections no longer visible. Crossings darkened by thought. I walk out of myself and into You, disappearing into the windy light of revelat

Bible, image by Claudia, on Pixabay, modified I Will Keep My Trust Fixed on Him We hear “believe,” but what of trust? In God, for it’s of God we speak. Let’s not evade—face this we must. Is not deep trust what hearts still seek? We need someone who is the Way, The Truth, the Life. Was born. Grew up. Gave sight. Healed souls. Taught how to pray. Broke bread. Washed feet. Then drank God’s cup.