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--



​
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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.



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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.


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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.

You tell me,
“The water tastes like sewage.”

I just poured a fresh glass.

You tell me,
My head on your tummy feels like a cannonball.

My touch is light.

You tell me,
My hands are soothing like a mug of hot coffee. 

I massage the death out of your fingers.

The ground is your blanket now
I am cold without you



_________________________________________________________________
C. Kohrs is a Creative Writing Graduate from the University of Cincinnati. Her works can be found in Ohio Bards 2023 and 2024 additions and in Folkway's Press's "Right to Life" anthology.

Sometimes angels chew tobacco.
They arrive after storms
in stained coveralls,
dirt under ragged fingernails
dangling from knuckled prison tattoos.
They wouldn't be caught dead
in some glittery Christmas card froth.
 
Instead, armed with cranes and shovels
and Bobcats, they do
the grunt work of repair
to celestial songs of chainsaws
clearing roads, scooping up debris,
and scrambling up poles to
string new light for the world.
 
Sawdust in hair, God-knows-what in beard,
their haloes of incense are workers' sweat
that hasn't seen a bath
since they left home a week ago
because they're camping out in a tent
like God-with-us down in the mud
by the receding raging river. 
 
There are no annunciations, no gold anything.
They just clear someone's driveway
and move on without a word,
anonymous, as if never there,
except they've made a way
outta no way for life to continue
out of the midst of death's darkness.
 
We entertain them with shared storied food,
aware of their divinity
even as they remain angels unaware,
seeing themselves only as stinky
fellow poor wayfaring strangers
called to care however they can
with whatever gifts they have.
 
In them, though, through grateful tears,
we see the shekinah robe of God
trailing through the brokenness
of this world, leaving blessings
in their wake of new possibilities
born out of the clearing of tangled grief
bleached sparkly clean with heaven scent.
 
 
 
_________________________________________________________
Tess Lockhart is a Christian theologian and poet who seeks to bear witness to Spirit moving through a broken world "charged with the grandeur of God."  https://tess-lockhart.com/
​

chirping in the bush
feathers huddled together
storm is a brewing


________________________________________________________________
Tim is a haiku poet who lives in St. Petersburg, FL. The city saw major damage.
www.haikutim.com