“Between Worlds” by Vida Vierra

“The moment I faced the inevitable loss of my Father…”

Despite the freshness of this warm
New England morning, I cannot take a deep
breath. The cleansing winds and morning dew fail to penetrate into that realm of the bardo I am traversing.

It is day four of the Hostage Crisis. Francis Xavier, having been captured by Parkinson’s, is now enduring the torture of dementia. He had once remarked to his children “this disease is my prison”. Now sentenced, he lays helpless on the over starched sheets, behind the metal bars of the bed made by fate. Faded flowered smocks press up against his face as rubber gloved hands administer protocols masquerading as “Care”. Through my shallow breath I must gather my courage to once again press that buzzer and enter the security doors of this Purgatory.

After these last three days, I now understand why a guard is necessary.
My heart aches with an unnameable grief.
For three days I have been cursed as a stranger, a threatening shadow being who kisses his trembling hands. I feel like a hungry ghost, longing for the days when we feasted on politics, mystics, and laughter.
Where is the “How to” book for this unprepared moment of Now? Dear God, how can such a giant evaporate before a daughter’s eyes? Hail Mary, can your Grace open a new passage way through this labyrinth? As I turn the corner of these dim lit walls I hover, suspended between heaven and earth. I dare not breathe in the inevitable.

The only sunlit window revealing life as we know it on earth is at the end of his hallway. I chase away the image of the clear, white light. My palms now sweating, I steady my legs unsure if I can withstand another day of rejection. Once again I cross the threshold of his dark, gray room lit only by the blue light of “Jeopardy”.

As I enter the gate for this race against time I summon a deep breath as if I am about to push in labor. I will overcome my life long vertigo. I will jump off that bridge between this world and the next. With my brightest daughter’s smile that

was always his, I dive.

Vida Vierra

Photo by VC Ferry

All Rights Reserved

© 2010

“Chambers” by Kalliope Amorphous

the smell of money fills our lungs
our fields are filled with blood
dripping chambers for death knell
the infidel swings from the gallows
erected on our heavy tongues
here, we exile all angels to hell

i have made an aerie for the bodies of the damned
between my skull and womb
nestled in muscle and pulse
the lock is glued
the door is jammed
do not enter this tomb
or heaven will convulse.

Photo & Poem by Kalliope Amorphous

All Rights Reserved

© 2010

“Such A Light” by L. K. Thayer

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I wake unto thee, my prism of color,
my rainbow of ecstasy, shimmers through
shattered glass. He thrusts forth and
commences to cut down my weeping willow,
whittle it into a piccolo and play me like a
song to be sung with a thousand refrains

So play me, I beg you sir, with the trumpets sounding
each time you cross the gates over my trampled soul
and carry me in your stronghold. He, whom I’ve
never laid eyes upon but can see through the mist
a mirage of springtime everlasting.

I long for the dawn of day or the depth of
glorious night, to sit across thy table sharing
a glance, lie next to thee on sheets of heaven
folding us into the palm of it’s caress.

How angelic to be blinded by such a light.

L. K. Thayer

All Rights Reserved

© 2010

“Illustrious, graceD” by Stephen Kalinich – Happy Birthday Stevie from The Juice Bar!!






of reality

flash by the screen

of my consciousness

and glimpses are revealed

of a truth so vast

it is impossible to grasp

in one gigantic gulp

or overview

This life is a dimly lit

barely open crack

of what is of

such overwhelming



we are a whisper

of its word

an echo

of its voice

and all that is

is but a fraction of a fraction

of this


that keeps changing

and rearranging itself

and as it grows

it keeps setting up

new configurations

you can feel it

but not explain it

killers hug and hustle

unfiltered debris

ready to devour


falsely accuse you

drop you into hell

heaven is an eye surgeon

that creates a new vision

and you think

you are doing it yourself

he just pulls away the layers

and what is already

in proportion and

itches to implodes and



you are off guard



you better beware

Jesus is around the corner

in the shoe store

helping blind soldiers and deaf ballerina’s

who do not

handle there self centeredness

they think they are dancing

but they are falling

and may never rise

just what can be given

to souls like these

I say

get out of the way

let the rivers flow

Every Where

is the answer

everywhere is the promise

everywhere is the deceiver


if there are some left

must rally to the cause

Survival depends

upon you each one of you

and we can tip the scale

in the direction

of the Face

of the Grace

that encompasses


Stephen John Kalinich

Photo by Mark Mawston

All Rights Reserved

© 2010

“He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” by Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

-William Butler Yeats

Photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher

All Rights Reserved

© 2009

“IN THOSE DAYS” by Henry Jaglom

Henry Jaglom

Henry Jaglom

In those days the sidewalks had stars in them
sparkling brilliantly under the pale blue street lamps at night
as my father and uncle and sometimes other men
walked up front a bit

their hands clasped tightly together behind their suited backs
strolling tall and erect and talking seriously
in the incomprehensible Russian syllables of business
behind me the thin sharp heels

of my mother and the other ladies
tapped out delicate yet powerful messages
of silk perfume
in exciting accents and laughing whispers
and I

between two worlds
tried so hard to read my future
in the shimmery dancing heavens beneath my feet
that I held the moment



a breath

Henry Jaglom

All Rights Reserved

© 2009