image by JL G, on Pixabay, modified Welcome, friends, to the latest issue of Spirit Fire Review! The artwork above makes me think about possibilities. Vast, swirling, beautiful. The writings of our contributors also make me think of possibilities as they speak of hope, strength, God's faithfulness even in adversities, and the beauty and joy that can be found. Like a persimmon tree that finally bears fruit. (G. Chandy) Or a kindness that helps us on the way. (D. Lee) Or a remi

image by Tolu Oni, on Pixabay Sounds of Spring Accolade of morning sun piercing the darkness of winter Bees buzzing around Queen Anne’s lace: cymbals and umbels Crocuses shouting in Amarillo yellow, announcing spring is here Daffodils, too—music to the eyes... and to Wordsworth’s ears Echoes of pileated woodpeckers drumming tulip poplar trees Frenzy of green maple leaves cheering in the chlorophyll breeze Grasshoppers and crickets flex, stridulate bow-leg violins & tympani Hu

"Christ in the Garden of Olives," by Paul Gauguin, public domain Christ in the Garden of Olives Inspired by the painting by Paul Gauguin. gnarled hands grip his handkerchief muddy garment hosts sweat stagnant trees split Christ from his disciples blades bind feet sleep severs prayers orange bangs unite with his beard shoulders swoop down like a preying bird _____________________ Rachel Rummo is a fiction writer based in South Florida, and she is i

a kilt, image by K Mitch Hodge, on Unsplash, modified The Music of Being Do you remember the summer evening we sat on the grassy slope of the outdoor arena, and wondered where the musicians were, since no orchestra was in the performance space? But then from the pine forest we faced more than thirty kilted pipers slow-stepped from the trees to the sound of "Amazing Grace" which we heard as if for the very first time. We both sensed in that quick moment the listening universe

car engine, image by Michael Kauer, on Pixabay, modified Practical Religion The prodigal son is fixing his mother’s battered car, next door. He arrived quietly this morning while it was still dark, and he will be gone by the time she’s awake and gets ready for church, so grateful when she turns the ignition on. I first noticed him when he was a teenager, learning his trade on an old pickup, his hand touching the carburetor the way he held his mother’s hand during

Hodu L'Adonai 01, art by the author, Michelle Shelfer Swainson’s Thrush Your first rolling warble is followed by a  gentler twin, then ascends a younger pair such that you carry your echoes with you,  wrapping yourself ever in cathedral. Your space at dawn and dusk brings me  round the years of Mays in waiting.  The song sparrow scribbles  lines flat on the page. And the crow scratches with rough  chalk against gravel. But this liturgy—you are the architect

image by sandid, on Pixabay River of Light The morning breaks in silver threads woven through the river’s skin. Each ripple sings a quiet hymn, praise of a hand unseen. Willows bow like whispered prayers, leaves trembling with holy breath. Even the stones, steadfast and cold, mirror the sun’s patient devotion. I kneel at the water’s edge, heart open, and for a moment, long enough to matter; the river carries me into the hush of God’s infinite presence.

image by Stefano Ferrario, on Pixabay, modified Be Not Dismayed               Some nights are long.             In our normal course The blue of the morning             Stays away, it hides. Be not dismayed.   In everyday severity             Comments             And looks. Anger is easy— Like breathing is easy— Like curse words that             Fly to lips with little effort.   This is not about surrender, It is about perseverance. About naming yourself  

image by Alejandro Salas, on Pixabay, modified I Love You I love sunrises and sunsets, and I love a starry sky. I love a yellow moon, low on the curtain of night. I love a sky so blue it makes the sun more bright. I love lightning and the thunder, and wind that bends the trees, and I love the trees in every season, even when they have no leaves. And I love candles in a darkened room and the tear brought forth from love. I love laughter when it’s fr

image by Adrian Campfield, on Pixabay Upon an Upturned Bench at Kenilworth Marsh “…with a bobolink for a chorister and an orchard for a dome.” ~ Emily Dickinson, “Some keep the Sabbath going to Church” It’s beastly hot for man if not for beast, where I teeter on an upturned bench (its seat is now its back, its back, its seat) and gaze across the swollen marsh, as an egret stalks the shallows— strikes—shakes—swallows. Swifts skim the mirror surface in pursuit

dogwood tree, image by Manfred Richter, on Pixabay gratitude             (for Olivia Dugan and Juliana Donskoy)   a walk in a park converts to the creation of something from nothing— high above where we earthbound are short of where the good lastly go, sweet/black gum tree-of-heaven, dogwoods red oaks interact, swaying like dancers in air the cement paths where folks flow like rivers, where finches, sparrows step-hop here/there towards meals on picnic tables

moon and trees, image by Free Fun Art, on Pixabay Craggy Rock from a dream I remember me, on this craggy rock ‘neath an old, moon-draped tree hearing voices, seeing yellowy buses and long-ago pals. Autumn—golds and burgundy reds carpeting the ground, iron bell tolling, Come along children, come along! On the playground, we are aiming for the fence, for Miller’s yard beyond the fence, signaling home run, all of us, in white, playing by moonlight.

image by Paula, on PIxabay, modified Hachiya persimmon dripping sweetness, twilight’s reds, oranges, pinks unfurl over ocean George Chandy is a retired physician-scientist newly embarking on expression through poetry. His poems have appeared or will soon appear in Soul Forte, The Rush Magazine, and Spirit Fire Review. He shared, “The hachiya persimmon tree I planted thirty years ago bore fruit in late fall this year. This poem describes a moment of bliss in my garden.” (

calm sea, image by Quang Le, on Pixabay EHYEH Hebrew for I AM God’s womb: Love bloomed. John preached— Beseeched. Jesus With us. He healed. Blessed meals. Chastised Their lies. Gave breath— Conquered death. Proclaimed. Inflamed. Calmed waves, Lives saved. Accused. Face bruised. Back slashed. Blood splashed. Limbs nailed. Friends wailed. “I thirst.” Not cursed! He died. Lanced side. Three days God’s way: Sunrise. Rose skies. Tomb space: No trace. She froze: He rose!

image by Gerd Altmann, on Pixabay Praise The constant language and song of this earth, no dictionary big enough, scored by chuckling rapids, breeze chatter of leaf, susurrus of owls, liminal whispers: the higher choir of stars, moon, pouring blessings, hauling up celebration’s tides. If I walk up-right journeying through this earth’s wonders and signs in bewilderment, why shouldn’t I sing as I stride, shouldn’t I join this morning’s descant wh

image by visaxslr, on Pixabay Only Son Golden were the days That shine still with your smile And your laughter flows  Through this temporal midnight Of my earthbound soul Gethsemane is dark and yet I wait with joy, my son For we shall rest together  In the healing light of Jesus Near the heartbeat of God Robert Funderburk was born by coal oil lamplight in his home near Liberty, Mississippi, graduated from Louisiana State University in 1965, and served as Staff Sar

new growth, ferns, image by NatureFriend, on Pixabay, modified Spirit Fire In the hush of dawn’s embrace, A lion’s mane ignites the sky— Orange flame, golden breath, Hope roaring against the night. Through grief, through searching, Through shadows that bend the soul, God whispers, I am here. And the fire becomes whole. Every streak of light reminds us, Every ember sings His care— Spirit fire, eternal goodness, Burning love beyond despair.

image by Layers, on Pixabay, modified Prayer Poetry Writing from meditations on the Lord’s Prayer Forever belongs to You— the shining kingdom, the quiet strength, the

blue ink, abstract, image by Teresa, on Pixabay Dreaming Man He might as well pin a sign NOT FOR SALE to his trapper hat, and NO LONGER A BULLSEYE to his heavy coat. He left his family, left his house, left his beliefs, crossed the Rubicon, never to return. Now, finally, he lives his dream: to be one with nature. Rainy days blur sight; cold nights settle into bone; owls hoot and  coyote packs howl staccato. Too late to learn: nature has her own dr

journal, image by artmew on Pixabay, modified On Losing a Journal All my frustration with the doctor’s orders to wait before getting pregnant: gone. All my questions about 1 Corinthians 11: gone. Somewhere in a hotel room at El Tropicano in San Antonio, Texas, maybe, or in the city’s largest convention center, or anywhere between here and there. All my fears about money and my husband’s business, all this pregnancy’s memories, such as the moment I first felt resista