Precious pets wandering, hungry, thirsty, fearful
torrential waters and vicious winds have seized their families
 
Waiting for children to play catch and toss frisbees
moms and dads who brush and bathe them
the littlest child cuddling them close in sleep  
two tousled heads on a single pillow
 
Nature’s angry wrath brings calamity and destruction
yet summons the very best in each of us
 
Hope’s fire still burns in every soul
 
Witness comfort in the selfless salvation of
neighbors helping neighbors, restaurant kitchens open round the clock
 houses of worship coming through as they always do
 
Buildings swallowed, precious photos lost, family heirlooms gone
all impossible to replace
 
Cash cannot buy back a wedding band
worn by every bride for four generations,
an ancient treasure sewn into a dress hem
smuggled in from foreign shores
 
Death counts climb to double digits
we stay glued to devices, praying for strangers
as we would our loved ones
 
A young couple forced by threats of impending disaster
vacate their home, not once but twice
in as many days
 
Homes reduced to rubble and ash on sodden earth
scraps of scattered memories
 crushed metal, bikes children will never again ride
 
We learn of a miracle
Amidst the destruction of their street
a lone house stands
tall and proud, untouched by nature’s wrath
as if they had been gone for an hour,
simply forgotten to lock their door
 
Their home, a haven would keep them secure
a sign of hope, promising future happiness
 
No storm nature may rain upon us will break our collective spirit
 
We discover a nugget of remaining fortitude
choose to be lifted up
filling ourselves with courage and strength
 
Hurricanes, tornadoes, typhoons, tsunamis, and a global pandemic
can never erase the prayers in our hearts
 
Mama, your children are safe
you have heard their staticky voices
coming from inside their cozy kitchen
 
Tonight you can close your eyes
tonight you can sleep
 
 
 
_________________________________________________________________
Jill Sharon Kimmelman is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee in poetry. She lives in Wilmington Delaware with her husband Tim Little. She is the proud mother of her son Jordan.

How quickly things can change,
Shift on some unknown axis,
Sending everything that touches us
Flying in directions that make no sense,
Or rotating in an absolute perfect logic,
Completely unknown to us.
Twisting, turning, erupting,
Birthing unrecognizable landscapes,
Sculpting in rushing and raging waters.
Volcanic explosions of change,
Emerging, rippling, eroding the known
Into some strange biological insurgency 
Comprised of roadblocks and detritus.
At times, manifesting wildly as
Tornadoes of trash and destruction,
Or a campfire run amok.
Frightening and enlightening,
Electric, these twists and turns unfold.
Just and unjust, righteous and unholy,
The path of life is confounding.
No fidelity here, no stability,
Always and ever changing, this existence.
Mysterious and veiled, upending itself
Every now and then,
Blinding in the brightest light.
At times, from the fog of frustration,
Materializing and solidifying, softly rolling in     
Come opaque wisps of understanding,
Building and growing, ebbing and flowing,
We for the most part know nothing of where
These gifts come from, or how they came,
Yet they arrive.
A helping hand, a plate of food,
A roof over our bedraggled heads,
A warm bed, a tattered quilt,
At times becoming our salvation.

​
 
 ________________________________________________________________
Sandra Place leads a rich life holding a master’s degree in counseling psychology, a graduate certificate and numerous certifications in holistic health. She is a poet, healthcare consultant and educator, consulting with creative approaches to the provision of care and organizational development. Find her at www.asandyplace.com and for more information contact her at [email protected]. 

In my head I have already left
but my feet are still lingering here.
I climb the stone steps to my favorite bar,
order a last espresso and a pastry,
thinking of jets, officials, passports and trouble.
Still the first sip is a positive good.
 
Sometimes it is hard for me to see the good
as not what, when the bad is gone, is left.
I would have my mind put by its trouble
at least in Italy. And while I’m here
why not simply have another pastry,
talk with the locals lined up at the bar
 
with cups and glasses. It’s not a tourist bar
and I speak little Italian, that’s not good,
but silence is melted by the pastry
(already no cornetti vuoti left)
and they accept that I am with them here
though they will always have  trouble
 
with my terrible Italian, but this trouble
they accept, at their communal coffee bar.
Of course they also serve some liquor here
as naturally affects the public good.
Sestinas are long and lines are always left,
and I’d like to fill them in with feathery pastry
 
but it’s almost noon and the bar is out of pastry.
Writing sestinas is a lot of trouble
and somewhat boring;  the vision has up and left.
It makes you want to visit another bar,
but none of the other places are this good
and I have come to feel mostly at home here.
 
The bartender feels some pity for me. Here,
he says, I have found you another pastry.
I bite and taste; once more I’m feeling good.
Thanks I say. He responds, no trouble.
He practices his English standing at the bar.
We chat with caution till no words are left.
 
Most have left now, only a few are here
Standing at the bar and eating pastry.
I leave behind my trouble. All is good.

_________________________________________________________________
Janet McCann is an ancient Texas poet who lives in a ramshackle house with her two obstreperous dogs.  This is a poem about my younger days when I used to teach in Italy.

A Hand that reaches, through the Dark--
Will light another's Way--
The faintest Touch—a saving Ark--
To guide through Storm and Day--

A Smile can carry—weight untold--
To Hearts that bend and break--
The smallest Grace—so manifold--
The greatest Cures can make--

The Kindness of a gentle Word--
Can halt the Cruelest Tide--
And soften Wounds that, undeterred,
Would crack the Soul inside--

Oh! Let my Hands—though frail they seem--
Lift others from Despair--
For in that Love—I shall redeem--
The burdens others bear--



​
_________________________________________________________________
CONCETTA PIPIA is a writer and poet. Her work is published in national and international anthologies and literary magazines. Ms. Pipia, born and raised in New York City,  continues to live there enjoying plants and her dogs.

​Sometime in the night,
Or perhaps it was the day…
Time just seems to slip away
When it’s so hard to cope.


Someone gave me hope,
Touching me with healing hands,
Gentle rain on arid lands,
Someone I’d never met.


I will not forget,
Things were going bad to worse,
She turned it all in reverse,
I owe it to a nurse.


While I was asleep
A stranger did this for me,
A hero I didn't see,
Gave me my life again.


‘Though I don't know when,
One day if I am allowed,
I'll meet her upon a cloud,
And thank her for these things.


She will have her wings,
Flying through the universe,
She’ll carry love in her purse 
And always be a nurse.


Somewhere there's a girl
Who came in my time of need,
Before away life would bleed
From wounds that were so deep.


She is ours to keep,
Even when she’s left these floors,
Walked the last time through these doors,
Beyond these mortal eyes.


Her soul will arise,
Above the words of a verse,
The grace of God will immerse,
Someone who will always be a nurse.



________________________________________________________________
Edward Kenny is an author, lyricist and librettist. He has published several books of poetry and lyrics, including two verse plays/librettos. He has written the book and lyrics for 11 musicals, including one that was selected as a finalist in the New York Drama League’s Grants Competition, along with over 1500 lyrics.

What sparks jump
between two lovers,
what intimate whispers
and erotic juices flow
from flesh to flesh
when hand is holding hand?
 
It is merely possession,
some may say,
a claim of property,
a way of seizing and keeping
what is desired in the flesh;
yet this cannot take hold
of the mystery entwined,
the sacred bond beyond grasping
that is made visible, tangible
when hand is holding hand.
 
Lovers and leaders
know the truth,
that there is giving
in the taking of another’s hand,
an unspoken substance
of love, wisdom and concern
not only
making single lives complete
but also
comforting the mourning,
strengthening the weak,
guiding the wandering home,
emanating the faith of promises,
and opening the door of the heart
with new acquaintances.
 
If you reach for the other’s hand
and look not into the person's eyes,
and care not to see
Christ’s own reflection there,
then you know not the miracle,
the divinely human miracle
of hand holding hand.


_________________________________________________________________
Christina Chase writes of the terrible beauty of life while living with a progressive motoneuron disease. She is the author of It's Good to Be Here: A Disabled Woman's Reflections on God in the Flesh and the Sacred Wonder of Being Human, published by Sophia Institute Press. Christina lives in the woodlands of New Hampshire with her caregiving parents.