HANUKKAH

by Anita S. Pulier

Sure, we know the story.

Desecration of a temple,

hopelessness, sorrow.

Short on sanctified oil

the fire and light on hand

turn out to be good enough,

darkness is defeated.

And isn’t that the point?

Things are never perfect,

never, and “good enough”

is the miracle.

As each of our children

comes into their own,

defying myth and dogma,

they create for us, the

generation of overseers,

a unique spectrum in which

to pause, inhale the holiday,

embrace imperfection

redefine terms, witness

history in the making.

Anita's latest book is Leaving Brooklyn (Kelsay Books). Anita’s poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies. She has been a featured poet on The Writer's Almanac and Cultural Daily. 

WARFARE IS THE OPPOSITE OF PRACTICING TONGLEN

by Catherine Gonick

Tonglen, or “taking and giving” is a meditation where you imagine taking in others’ suffering as dark smoke and giving all that they need as bright light. —A Skeptic’s Path to Enlightenment

Asked to inhale

your pain

and to exhale

my compassion

I instead

inhale your righteous

rage

feel fear

exhale my own

just rage in return

and too fast to notice

a fiery fence

springs up

the burning barricade

of exhaled words

that separates

my dangerous pain

and yours

and makes us equal

in unsafety

Catherine Gonick has published poetry in journals including Live Encounters, Notre Dame Review, Forge, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and in anthologies including Support Ukraine, Grabbed, and  Rumors, Secrets & Lies: Poems About Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. She works in a company that slows the rate of global warming through projects that repair and restore the climate. 

JOY IN THE TIME OF COVID

by Rebecca Leet

“Joy of Life,” a painting by Alexandra Romano.

Joy has deep, soft texture these days,

like going barefoot on a carpet so lush

you almost feel you’re walking on air.

Its sound is soft, too—no brass bands,

 

no clashing cymbals. More like sweet air

passing through spring leaves. Its color

is the wash of a water-color painting—

nothing bold. To claim joy feels slightly selfish

 

but how can I feel other when—as I write—

all whom I love are healthy and those dearest

I can hold with my eyes—un-Zoomed—

and with my arms. I cradle my granddaughter

 

and inhale her infant perfume, draw each daughter

hard against my breasts. Randomly, a quiver

of Covid concern causes pause until—

like warm sun on my face in winter—

 

time dissolves into the eternity of now

and I breathe in the joy of the moment.

 

Rebecca Leet has been writing poetry for five years since retiring from the media-policy-politics world of Washington, DC. Her first book of poetry is Living With the Doors Wide Open. She has been published in Canary, Passager, Bourgeon, and elsewhere.