Star Roots, Field Work Deep in the August field, I loll with mice and deer and the jawboned lightning playing wild war games all across a sky’s blue air. One jagged tear of it ripped through the stoic barn from stem to stern, lighting haymow, empty stalls, untold years of leather collectibles on the hoofed-out floor. No rain yet, though it’s aromatic on the wind raking the trees and exhorting whistles sharp and clear as commands out of electric wires. Why I sit here, plunked

Welcome to our 12th edition of Spirit Fire Review! With this issue, through words of poetic wisdom and faith, and the beauty of breathtaking photography, we call forth blessing to come upon you and overtake you. May you be surrounded and filled with love and light. We are thankful to our loyal readers, contributors, and all those who support Spirit Fire Review.

Straight and Narrow Low o low came You loving Lord narrowly birthed and laid low in a manger– You, wider than all skies. Straight the way and narrow straight the tree O narrow they nailed You down narrow as man. Straight the way and narrow to sunder tree and rise– O narrow as Your arms stretched wide the way to Paradise. God’s Humor Some people seem to have a God Who never smiles, and never laughs. I wonder about those mournful souls– what sort of a God has them? I have a God

© Marla Venable I am a 29 year old amateur photographer based in Harrisburg, PA. I work full time for the Commonwealth of PA and spend my spare time exploring and capturing Pennsylvania's stunning mountainous countryside.

A Scented Remembrance Feeling these rains has helped me recall my childhood days now faraway gone. My Dad's laughter and Mom's hug and I want them back all the more. The smell of Old Spice in the air and homemade bread baking. Chapters lost in another time, childhood memories awaken. I shudder and stoically stand; rain and tears upon my cheek. A gnawing yearning so strong; but finding I simply cannot speak so looking up, I say a silent prayer, wish them well, with loving thou

"The Cathartic Power of Forgiveness" A man whose great success was due, in part, to others' work, for which he often took the credit, grew ashamed. He went to each, apologized sincerely, and received forgiveness. Still, he felt bound by his sins. At times, he'd also failed his family and God. His conscience wouldn't quiet down until he said, " I'm sorry. Could you please forgive me?" All said "yes," but still he felt weighed down with guilt he couldn't rise above. He couldn't

© Daginne Aignend Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch writer, poetess, and photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne posted some of her poems on her fun project website www.daginne.com She has been published in several Poetry Review Magazines, in the bilingual anthology (English/Farsi), 'Where Are You From?' and in the Contemporary Poet's Group anthology 'Dande

Amplified Hello, Father. Quick question: Does a loss amplify the sounds of life, bring all emotions into greater magnitude - sharpen breath and beat? Or does loss deaden, wrap the mind in cocoon, weigh down words, muffled gestures, drop all limp into the earth? I suppose the lesson is trust, the book would be Ecclesiastes or Job, and the only way through is your hand guiding me. © JD DeHart JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. He has a new blog project at

Witness of the Past We were seven and went to sleep, every night, always at the same time. Father, mother, three sons and two daughters. Then, from open doors of the rooms, beginning by the eldest to the youngest and one at a time, the full darkness always heard a familiar ballad being sung - your blessing, dad; your blessing, mom. So, permeating the corridors came in one by one: God blesses. Then, aloud and in bed, they joined in prayers, what worked as singular lullaby to p

Copyright, Veronica Michalowski November 7, 2016 Written about her father, Peter Paul Michalowski July 24, 1917 – November 26, 2000 Photo taken in the yard of his mother’s home, Oxford, New Jersey, c.1942, age 25 GIVERS New Jersey mountain so huge it’s named Montana. He knows it well— with his brothers, spends his youth here exploring, playing. Hemlock, oak, dogwood, birch, what’s left of chestnut. Drinks from natural springs hikes endless trails of this feral cathedral. Mind

2-18-78 A childhood Bible fossilized in a cinder-block bookcase between The Whole Earth Catalogue, Man’s Search for Meaning, and a razored-out book camouflaging a stash. “To believe or not believe”— the question percolating for months. This evening I drive to Chapel Hill, streetlights dopplering by the open window. A thought blazes through thin space on 421N: “Are you going to accept Jesus as the Son of God, or not?” My voice yells out the window “Yes—yes!” The next night a d

Gore I know ‘twas the blood. I know ‘twas the blood. Father, forgive me please. Trouble in my way. Like Judas I gotta hide sometimes, 30 pieces o’ silver shadows; real 24kt fool’s gold; exact same kiss of death. I knew ‘twas the blood. I knew ‘twas the blood handed ov’r by me. Father forgive me it was I. Dedicated to: BLOOD BANK…One day when I wuz lost; He GOT UP on my cross; saved me. A RocDeeRay Poem © Renee’ Drummond-Brown Renee’ Drummond-Brown is a poetess with experience

Miss Me at Sunset When I'm forever gone, bury me between the lyrics of your most beautiful poem so I'll never be forgotten. When I'm forever gone, seek my essence among the petals of the white rose, or with the smell of freshly brewed morning coffee. When I'm forever gone, seek my voice in a sweet songbird's sonnet, or with sounds of calm raindrops upon an old tin roof. When I'm forever gone, scatter my ashes in winds like seeds of a dandelion. For once I'm forever gone, miss