IV.

Jianqing Zheng

The Architecture of a Word

The Chinese character for poem (詩)

pairs speech (言) with temple (寺)—

once a royal court where odes

and rites governed formal rituals.

This morning, pacing from shrine

to shrine in an old Buddhist temple

and photographing deities

and immortals, my shutter clicks

into the cadence of a sutra chant

drifting out of the great hall.

I linger by the threshold,

immersed in its rhythmic flow—

a poem, ancient and distant,

fluttering onto my mind,

like a butterfly dancing

on the currents of spring wind

Jianqing Zheng's poetry collections include Dreaminations and Visual Chords. A three-time recipient of the Mississippi Arts Commission poetry fellowships, he lives in the Mississippi Delta.

David Martin

On the Philosophy of Money

This paper bill is the faith you can hold.

           A limestone disk. A brick of teas.

You can exchange it for silver or gold.

           A cowrie shell. A wheel of cheese.

Its value exists for all souls who believe.

           Whale tooth. Stag skin. Beaver pelt.

Counterfeits blossom in attempts to deceive.

           Beads of glass. Salary of salt.

Car loan or mortgage or leveraging wealth

           A quetzal’s feather, shimmering green.

can all be paid back while you’re still in good health.

           Mulberry bark. Dried cacao bean.

You’ll spend your whole life smiling under a debt,

           A tulip bulb on a shelf growing dull.

but happiness dictates you must place a bet.

           A pack of cigarettes. One human skull.

David Martin's poetry collections include Tar Swan (NeWest Press), Kink Bands (NeWest Press), and Limited Verse, (University of Calgary Press). His work has been awarded the CBC Poetry Prize and was included in Best Canadian Poetry 2025. His most recent collection, nightstead, was published by Palimpsest Press in 2026.

J. C. Scharl

Opening Day After Winning the Title

On November 2, 2016, the Chicago Cubs broke a 108-year streak and won the World Series. In their next game, on April 2, 2017, the Cubs lost by one run.

You’re down one run at the bottom of the ninth

on Opening Day, two strikes but men in place

on first and third and suddenly the air goes taut,

like secretly you’ve feared it never would again

since that day five months ago when you broke time

with your bat and crushed to dust a hundred

and eight years of failure, a hundred and eight

years of being not enough, a hundred and eight years

of curses, prophesies, a tragic myth, and with that hit

brought the Title home... but little did you know,

with that hit you also broke a universe of meaning

the likes of which most of us never get to inhabit,

a universe where being not enough was enough

for the legend to go on, where defeat could pile up

to be a thing more glorious than victory,

the universe of heroes, of Hector and Ulysses,

in which the fearful gods strive openly with men

and deeds of men have weight like the weight

of the swing you must take now or not take, forever.

It turns out, you see, that after all, victory

is a little pedestrian, while some defeats wing past

like comets and blaze on, unforgettable

as a trash fire on North Shore Canal.

And as you stand there tensed, waiting

for the moment that you know is coming,

when you must choose with your mind

an instant later than you’ve chosen with your body

what it is you’re going to do, it dawns on you

like the Sunkist logo blooming out past right field

that decades of this on-again-off-again winning

will never match the glory of that spectacular disaster,

never wash away the strong and salted savor

of the long defeat which meant, if nothing else,

the cosmos thought you were worth opposing.

And while you’re thinking of all this in a split second

full of the hum of flies and the smell of grass

and the chaos of the crowd the pitcher lets it go and you,

with all the empty force you possess, you swing

and find that Fate’s still got her eye on you;

the ball slides past, the umpire shouts “Stee-riiiiike

three!” You straighten, part of an army again

on the lam, cut off on foreign soil, dogged and dangerous

as a bear at bay, and when you tip your head to spit

at the dust, the gleam is back in your narrowed eye.

There lie before you other worlds

to lose. Some god arrays against you still,

and the course of your legend is not yet run.

J. C. Scharl

A. M. Juster

Nothing in Hell Is Up to Snuff

for XJK

It rankles us that Satan doesn’t care

for process. Brimstone shipments are too slow

for summer fun, so flesh is roasted rare,

and He has banished Barry Manilow

without an explanation. Long ago,

He welcomed new arrivals with a show

of evil…not now! He seems unaware

that he is failing as a CEO.

Unshaven, dazed in tattered underwear,

He leaves His pitchfork on His patio,

then curses God without the same old flair.

Though revolution simmers in the air

and demons hatch new schemes for overthrow,

most souls prefer The Devil who they know.

A. M. Juster

R. L. Barth

An Abstract Offering

       before a patrol

Dame Fortune, Lord, or any other gods:       

My skills and my bush discipline I lay

Upon your altar, trusting you to stay

Beside me so that I may beat the odds.

Violating Sgt. Barth’s Rule #1

Don’t ever walk on trails. “That’s common sense.”

Is it? Consider Sgts. Bock and Spence:

They took their teams on trails, and their men paid.

Harsh truth: their dead and wounded were betrayed.

McNamara’s 100,000

Moronic? Bumbling? Drooling? Poor? Sign here.

There are 100,000 openings

In McNamara’s scheme. You’ll learn some things

You might convert to skills; and never fear,

If under fire you don’t know zig from zag,

Be sure he’ll give you your own body-bag.

R. L. Barth was a long range patrol leader in the 1st Reconnaissance Bn. (USMC) in Vietnam. He is the editor of The Selected Letters of Yvor Winters. His two most recent books are That Mad Game (Scienter Press) and Pleasing the Diners: Translations from the Latin of Martial (Contubernales Books).

Jefferson M. Holdridge

Balloons and Zephyrs

The life of balloons is one that we conceive

Like that of zephyrs. They rock and nod,

Bounce along the floor as though they believe

Their inspiration was the breath of God.

They ignorantly await the hour.

They shrivel like any wilting flower.

But the saddest end of all, is one

Helium–filled that brought outside for fun

Will be forgotten in the play and rising slip

From loosened hands toward avaricious trees

Or cross the sky like any sailing ship,

When Aeolus decides to patronize the breeze,

And scandalize a child. Our daughter cries

To lose the toy we only gave to please.

We see her watch it as it quickly flies

And understand she knows that every gift

Appears and soon may just as likely lift

And looking down, wave from distant skies.

The author of two recent volumes of poetry, The Wells of Venice (2017) and The Bonds of Nest and Urn (2025), Jefferson M. Holdridge has been published in Prairie Schooner, Poetry Ireland Review, Southword, The Irish Times, Mantis, The Christian Century, Honest Ulsterman, The Galway Review, and Poetry Wales.

Josh Luckenbach

Banana Plant, Lubbock, Texas

Its oarlike leaves row

in currents of autumn wind

while our toddler talks

about a new leaf sprouting,

unscrolling its venous verse,

its language older

than the one Bashō wrote in

four centuries past

when he adopted his name

from these leaves easily torn.

Bashō’s disciples

transplanted his banana

every time he moved,

the parched leaves no doubt drooping

along each journey like ours

do now after days

without rain, our son growing

louder every time

he says Should we water it,

which he means as a statement

but which, in toddler

syntax, sounds like a question,

so he tries again,

points to a leaf as withered

as the ancient monuments

other poets praised

but Bashō called unstable,

world ever in flux

to which my son’s mood attests,

his whoop when I pass the hose.

This plant won’t bear fruit

till the two years of his life

so far pass again,

if it ever bears fruit here;

it wouldn’t have for Bashō.

Two years, however

he understands it, must seem

a long time to wait.

It is a long time to wait

for something so unlikely.

Note: this poem is in a syllabic 5-7-5 / 7-7 meter after the Japanese linked verse form that Bashō often wrote in collaboratively. This poem is not actually in linked verse, but rather my intention is for the syllabic meter to gesture toward the poetic influence of Bashō.

Josh Luckenbach's recent poems have appeared in The Southern Review, New Ohio Review, RHINO, and elsewhere. He serves as Web Editor for the Coalition for Community Writing.

Claudia Gary

Tonal Labyrinth

Begin with a clew, and fasten

one end of its yarn to a doorpost

to see that you won’t remain lost

as you follow your winding passion

to the innermost hall, then dash in

with a different key. You may accost

your dissonant and bullish host,

but you’ll create the fashion

of every turn and each descent

into the deepest room

of tonal change—till what you’ve meant

emerges from the gloom,

and you are ready to absolve

the Minotaur as you evolve.

Claudia Gary’s new poetry book, Time and Other Solvents, is a story of healing. She teaches Sonnet, Villanelle, Meter, and more at writer.org and privately, via Zoom. Author of Humor Me (2006) and chapbooks including Genetic Revisionism (2019), she is also a health journalist, visual artist, and composer. See pw.org/content/claudia_gary

Gregory Calabro

Tropical Depression

   Gainesville, FL

Late October. An autumn that can’t seem

to break July’s humidity. At home, alone;

clapboard apartment. Chronic fever dream:

storm clouds, near-empty streets, incessant drone—

cicadas skulking in the trees. Routine

becomes excuse for coffee, nap at 2:00,

more coffee, pint of whisky, nicotine.

Little gets done, and little there is to do.

The inbound hurricane has been reduced

to rain, its inland winds far less severe

than coastal invocations. Not quite proof,

but promise as the sky begins to clear:

arrhythmic finger-tapping on the roof;

persisting conversation in my ear.

Gregory Calabro’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Nimrod, Birmingham Poetry Review, Free Bloody Birds, and elsewhere. He was a finalist for the 2026 Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize. He holds an MFA from the University of Florida, and he lives in Boston.

Abigail Knutson

Ezer Means Warrior

Brave women give their very selves to those

who grow inside and whose dependence shows

in bulging life, that glorious balloon:

O mystery and metaphor of the womb.

Life asks a mother’s first, last, and all.

Embryonic need for blood never stalls

but asks for every drop pumped through the heart

to travel, oxygen rich, to the start

of life, tiny seed clenched in the dark,

consuming to consume more and embark

toward a pinprick of light, pass through bone.

The exit roars with fire. Then you’re home.

What began as indistinguishable from self

becomes another, flowers into a wealth

of being so intricate you take my breath.

Once out, your milk comes from my breasts,

and so we share my warmth until you grow

into your skin, your lungs, your toes.

My world shrinks yet unfurls as you get words.

If I dissect my feelings, joy’s absurd.

Your smile is enough. I play with trains,

color dogs, point at trucks, walk in the rain.

I build a tower of blocks to be knocked down,

sweep floors for cookie crumbs. Books get found.

Books get lost again. I scrub clothes that will fall

on wet grass. Throw and catch this bouncing ball.

What is the meaning of these repetitions?

The meaning might be silence between words. Creation

is the heartbeat that we share. Catch the love.

Throw it back. Once women sat before a tub

to tattoo washboards with the clothes they’d sewn.

They hauled water from wells and rivers: alone

or working together. Picture them talking

and lifting laughter to the sun, walking

back with clothes and courage cleaned, their burdens shared.

I can’t imagine sewing everything we wear.

These women had reasons I can’t even name

to complain. Large knuckled and wind lined, same

heartbeat in their chest keeps time in mine.

It tells me ezer means a warrior: a fine

name for God or for the keeper of a home.

What’s worth keeping is the rest of shalom,

and it might not be kept without a fight,

but I’ll think of those who worked by candlelight

and roll up my sleeves to use my machines.

I’ll bake our bread and read our books and dream

of making sanctuary in this place.

Such stuff as dreams are made on, too, is grace.

Abigail Knutson was born in a blizzard and has been singing the songs of the American Midwest ever since. A poet, free-lance editor, and homeschool mom, she loves the Word who became flesh and all the words he entrusted to us. She writes at Literary Feast on Substack.

Tushar Sen

Creation of Woman

Divine artificer Twashitri stood
and marveled at the man that he had made
from cosmic clay the elder gods bestowed,
a mortal shape from sacred silence weighed.

But finding now no clay within his urns
to fashion forth a companion for man,
he turned instead where restless nature burns
and gathered fragments none could wholly span:

the slender bending of the river reeds,
the vacillation of the Ganges tide,
the crocodile’s cold patience in the weeds,
the cuckoo’s tender coo at eventide;

the crane’s deceit, the Calla Lily’s bloom,
the Bermuda grass's trembling dance,
the swaying of polar wind from heat to gloom,
the gazelle’s bright and ever-watchful glance;

the twinkling silver of the distant stars,
the tapering curve of elephantine grace,
the sensitivity of candle light, shy of gentlest zephyr,
the winter snow’s cold hiding an unshakable fervor;

the joyous gold that spills from morning rays,
the purity of morning dew, pristine and shiny,
the chattering of turquoise jay hiding in the haze,
the weeping of cloud, dark and whiny;

the peacock’s vanity, the clinging of vine—
from these he shaped her symmetry and breath,
until she stood, both tempest and divine,
a living riddle wrought from life and death.

He placed her gently in the hands of man
and spoke a warning carried like a storm:
“I made her thus — no mind may wholly span;
pray you survive the wonder of her form.”

Note: Twashitri is described in Rigveda as the ideal artist, the divine artisan and corresponds in many respects with Hephaistos and Vulcan. He is said to be the creator of man, woman and the other living beings.

Tushar Sen is a BIPOC writer from Bhoiwada village in Maharashtra, India. He spends his spare time directing plays for free for local municipal school children. His poetry has appeared in Sortes, Lekh, Indian Review, Writers Resist, SpecPo Verse, Flora Fiction, Ecological Citizen, Military Review, The Orchards Poetry, and Afrocritik.