“The Ocean of the Mind” by Sandi Christie

In the place where “I” arises, in the ocean of the mind,
Where the ego’s dark disguises for a moment fall behind,
And the wisdom that we cherish, is wrapped up and pushed across
On the waters of awareness to a river where it’s tossed
Like an anchor, gently sinking, on a chain that has been cut,
Now perceived, a distant twinkling, where a ladder does abut—

In the ocean of the mind, there’s a ladder you can find.

In the silence, like a diamond, shining brightly in the heart,
Where the spirit knows no crime and all illusions fall apart,
And the meaning of a minute is dissolving like the hands
Of the paint upon a portrait in a Dali-painted land.
Past and future have no meaning, only timelessness abides,
Here the spirits are convening, in His glory, they collide—

In the ocean of the mind, where the body’s left behind.

In arpeggios ascending towards a symphony of one,
There’s a melody extending as all borders come undone.
An ancient song remembered from a long-forgotten place,
Every sorrow unremembered in a perfect state of grace.
A gentle Voice, susurrant, in a language ears can’t hear
Is now flowing on Love’s current, every fear now disappears—

In the ocean of the mind, where all spirit is aligned.

Now the current lifts you higher and the veil falls away
And the feelings that transpire, there is not a word to say.
The door is finally open, the forgotten son is home,
The mind no longer broken knows it never walks alone.
All that misery engenders has now finally been released.
The guilty mind surrenders in acceptance of His peace—

In the ocean of the mind, it’s His peace that you will find.




Sandi Christie has published two collections of poetry: Miracles Fall Like Drops of Rain and Lilies of Forgiveness.  She lives with her husband in Florida.

“Deus Ex Machina” by Brian Yapko

God – out of Your machine, I implore
You to grrr and clang, to hum, to emit
And bless. Out from Your well-oiled rotor
Into my hurting, rusting core!
Redeem and renew me with holy writ;
Motivate this brain, these limbs, this motor
To work, to run, to think, to hope, to fit.

Almighty Craftsman, Master Creator…
How desperately I seek You
My search frustrated by Your eternal “Later.”
I look for You now, I hope for something greater…
To see a vapor, hear a hum, to see You come through
From the tomb, from the fire! O Great Innovator,
Let my soul not corrode into a useless, rusting brew!

I ache looking for You. Will You not come,
Master of all that is designed and built?
But I see only spare parts, leftover bolts, an oil drum,
Your servants’ fingers raw and numb,
So careful that there be no waste, no blood spilt.
Yet I know You are here. In each mansion, every slum,
Powering my love, my hate, my hurt, my guilt.

Shaper-Of-Machines, of all that carries mass
Collector of emotions, tears and thought!
I confess — I am lost and hurting. Short on gas.
Unuseful. Rusted and fragile. Opaque as glass.
Ex machina! Save me, for I am caught –
Stuck in a dead end from which I cannot pass
Recalling nothing of value that I’ve been taught.

God, come to me as the One-Who-Will- Repair,
Garbed in the boiling orange of molten steal
Emitting steam, hanging tools, filtering the air…!
Don’t let me break from the grind, the despair.
Come to me for You alone know what I feel!
Fix me. Make me useful. Make me care.
Oh my Creator, make me real.




Brian Yapko is a lawyer whose poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Prometheus Dreaming, Cagibi, Marathon Lit. ReviewGrand Little Things, Society of Classical Poets, Poetica, Chained Muse, Garfield Lake Review, Tempered Runes Press, The Abstract Elephant and Sparks of Calliope among others. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. 

“A Mother’s Eyes” by Susan Jarvis Bryant

She burns to bear his burden (take the weight)
But he is far beyond her guiding reach.
Beyond her soothing arms, he meets his fate.
Her heavy heart has nothing left to teach…

For these are not his first steps; they’re his last.
His skin (once kissed and dressed by her) is flayed.
His gouged and bloodied flesh leaves her aghast.
If only they’d embraced his word and prayed.

Bright eyes that mirrored smiles of her raw joy
Now brim with woe for those whose ways aren’t true.
Her soul, it holds the message of her boy–
Forgive them; for they know not what they do.

Her feet, nailed to the spot (instincts denied)

Consumed by pain, she watches… c r u c i f i e d.


first published by The Society of Classical Poets




Susan Jarvis Bryant is a church secretary and poet whose homeland is Kent, England.  She is now an American citizen living on the coastal plains of Texas. Susan has poetry published in the UK webzine, Lighten Up On LineThe Daily Mail, and Openings (anthologies of poems by Open University Poets).

“Wrath is Coming” by Christopher Scott Thompson

1

The sky is bright, but gray. A hint of light
Shines, flickering, behind the clouds. Outside
The streets are silent. And a hint of night

Comes creeping slowly up these clean and wide
But not quite empty streets. A man walks by.
With eyes like death he looks from side to side

Then bellows, “Kill them all!” We hear his cry
In rooms where we’ve been locked inside for days,
But no one looks. He screams, “They have to die –

“I’ll hunt them down! I’ll kill them all!” He stays
Beneath my window for a little while
Just screaming out his challenge. These are days

When mental chaos breaks the heavy, still
And fatal silence of the city’s will.

2

And someone answers. Driven by his fear
Or foolish pride, he takes his stand and yells:
“You shut your mouth! Go on, get out of here!”

Then total silence reigns. In all the hells
Where we have locked ourselves, we sit and wait
To find out what the man will do. The bells

Ring out the hour. And thick with rage and hate
His voice rings out as well. “They have to die!
For wrath is coming!” Like some mindless fate

He rolls along. The echoes of his cry
Play back his words. He stalks along the street
Still shouting out his prophecy. And I

Cannot deny a certain strange appeal.
For even rage can cleanse, and wrath can heal.

 

 

Christopher Scott Thompson is 47 years old, the author of several books on historical swordsmanship as well as the Noctiviganti series of dark fantasy novels. He has been composing poetry for more than 30 years.