painting by Janine Pickett, acrylic fluid art on canvas. Method balloon dip. “My heart said, You.” “My heart said, You” is a quote from a poem by Isabel Chenot that is included in this issue. It seemed to set just the right tone for Spirit Fire Review’s 5th anniversary. We celebrate what God has done in these 5 years. And we are so thankful for all the wonderful people who have submitted work, had work published
dewy flower, image by Myriam Zilles, on Pixabay ~child-heart “For You are our Father though Abraham does not know us” (Isaiah 63:16). The child-heart in me cries from long ago when I was broken to a legacy of sorrow. The child-heart in me cries afraid of nights. With unhushed nightmares, unkissed hurts, the grown-up fights. The child-heart in me cries but no one hears, or if they do — no arms can gather in my clench-fist years. The child-heart in me cries. Much of me’s false
girl with ice skates, image by Lorri Lang, on Pixabay On the Porch of Magnolia Manor, Decorated for Fall She would tell me wistfully about carrying her skates to the lake in Ohio, while I watched the soft joy of luminary candle bags along the sidewalk out to the hedge of azaleas, holding away the asphalt of the island's main roadway, or stared at the black sky bright with stars, their silent light close, impassive. I had to make time for this because she loved the porch at ni
cracked pottery, image by Manseok Kim, on Pixabay Cracks We are vessels holding all that we are. Others near us are the same. Each whole, but untouched. How to share with others? A crack forms in our clay, letting in light and life from close by. Light within us, moves from each cup. More cracks start but no essence is lost. Sharing the light and each other. Not at a distance. Sharing bits of lives, light lost, found, gained. Cracks widen, we see bits and pieces till we are f
sugarcane, image by Albrecht Fietz, on Pixabay Uganda 2020 I remember the sound of rain and the smell of sweat. A thick body odor with a trace of lingering dust. And behind the dust, a pair of eyes burning with love and greed and hunger. I remember the sound of pastors preaching as if their tongues had caught fire. As if every unanswered question was burning away on their tongues. And all of the congregation being held silent in that fire. I remember the sound of my own voice
Christ, image by Raheel Shakeel, on Pixabay The Plan Thank you, Jesus, for sticking to... The Plan. * Let not... the sinful nature of the flesh impede communion with the Spirit. * Dialog The dialog coming from the curved screen television is not as important as my dialog with You. ____________________ EG Ted Davis' poetry has appeared in various online and in print literary journals and in miscellaneous Christian publications. August 2021 issue
bullfinch, image by Oldiefan, on Pixabay In the Beginning I walk across the afternoon, advancing ever forward while my soul retreats into the primordial womb, trail waymarked by a procession of wonders created long before my weary bones were formed from mounds of dirt: the aria of birdsong, the low hum of distant ocean, the gentle chime of limbs in the breeze, the sky stretched out as an amphitheater, clouds breaking apart to reveal light, that firstborn of all creation, shin
Milky Way, image by Evgeni Tcherkasski, on Pixabay Ontology I look to the heavens plead questions The stars remain silent I look to the sky coax clouds for answers They only speak language of rain I look to the firmament plow its soil for words There is no treasure of wisdom I look to the ocean sink to its depths Only fathom its silence I look within find You tucked in the folds of my heart Answers on your lips _____________________ Supernova From the beginning, His grace spr
frosted glass, colorful, image by bluebudgie, on Pixabay Heavenly hour, sisters She walks around, head down, eyes set to dust, sand is red around. She is her usual she, she is and even before—on streets, beach, heaven, a haven. Call her timid, call her haughty, a rain-ness she will not place herself, cannot haste from. Can she? Call her explorer, half-true, but when her heart, so she, right down the desert, dirt under nails. She walks where glimmers and gleams, beams, sees th
boat, image by pasja1000, on Pixabay Living by the River Styx I often listen to people who speak movingly about forging a legacy, intent on being remembered for their good choices, their noble acts. I only hope to remain among the ones assigned to “remembering duty,” especially now that wisdom has reached up to my ankles, and so much repair is needed after the latest fire ravaged our roof, or fearing another storm would come, so worried for all the frightened newborn calves.
collage, faces from Pixabay Cherished Daydreaming Sitting by the road’s edge, I watch life go by. I see men, women, old and young people. They carry in their faces their realities and, beyond, I try to imagine what really lead them to move on, but cannot be seen: their well-kept secrets and desires, their high esteem, their own motto, their ego. They are striving to be individuals, rather than simply one more. Sometimes I see even myself, mixed in the crowd, perhaps a little
Summer Design 9, by Junior McLean Junior McLean, a self-taught graphic artist, lived for 17 years in The Bronx, later in Anderson, Indiana, and is currently back in New York City. He is an illustrator and collaborator for writers seeking illustrations, book cover art, and full digital art portraits. He offers artwork for sale on custom products. You can reach him at: DarkGaia2@yahoo.com August 2021 issue
hearts, image by Ben Kerckx, on Pixabay Cuánto Más? Cuántas lágrimas más tengo que derramar? No soy rio ni mar ni lluvia. Cuántos latidos mi corazón debe saltar? No soy ni tambor ni nota musical. Cuántas plegarias al cielo debo gritar? Ni soy águila ni jilguero ni cenzontle. Cuántas veces mi voz van a callar? Ni soy campanario, cañón o canario. Cuántas veces mis pensamientos debo guardar? Mi mente aún respira, al igual que mi cuerpo y mi alma. Cuántas veces a otros debo capri
forest in mist, image by Free_Photos, on Pixabay The Flute I search my instrument, stem I long for, difficult to find in the forest, elusive as birdsong. I thresh deep, see my mind’s grove. It holds breath like mist in hollow internodal regions, mouthpiece welcoming my art. Stem that measures patience I saw with care, prayer true as the bamboo. Back home, carving holes, splinters wounding my fingers. It takes years to master the elusive music. I’ll push it gently, with love,
geese flying, sunset, image by skeeze, on Pixabay A SIGH “All my longings lie open before you Lord; my sighing is not hidden from you.” (Psalm 38:9) When I’m worn out and caved in I love to linger over David’s promise that God hears my sighs. David was a shepherd, a warrior, an outlaw, a refugee, a general, and finally the king of Israel; if anyone understood what it meant to be stressed and weary, David was the guy. If he says my sighs are not hidden from God, that means the
Fall colors, 11x14 Acrylic on canvas. Method: balloon dip. Janine Pickett is the founding editor of Spirit Fire Review. She is also an artist. In her words, "Creating artwork while meditating on scripture is so calming and restorative for me... I’m trying out different techniques, such as painting with straw using only my breath, or painting with a chain or a string." 16 x 20 acrylic fluid art on canvas. Method: balloon dip. 16 x 20 acrylic on canvas. Method: straw, breath, s
measuring tape, image by Thomas Wolter, on Pixabay MEASURING GOD How are you going to do it? How do you weigh the Infinite? How do you measure the Absolute? How do you test the IQ of Omniscience? Would you measure God for a suit? Would you ask His age, or how much money He has in the Bank of Heaven? What about race, or His education? What are His interests, likes or dislikes, pet peeves, political opinions? Or maybe you want to just ask one thing only—what are His dreams, his
orange brush strokes, image by Prawny, on Pixabay The Path
Look at the world around you,
A feast for your eyes to behold,
All just for you, a precious gift,
Of far more value than gold.
Beauty that nearly blinds you,
If you opened your eyes to see,
And overflows your heart with joy,
With the knowledge that you are free.
The wonders you have not been aware of,
Have surrounded you every day,
Calling to you, beckoning you,
Each a path to the Way.
At last, wh
farm, image by Loren King, on Pixabay Fond Fathering Frail soul, fond fathering feeds thee, ingathering speeds thee, in fallow field seeds thee, until thou yield blessing in purer prayer pressing for others’ care, proving the Father’s love tends all who reach above earth’s fare, their need quelling who dare beseech His love indwelling. _____________________ Lucia Walton Robinson is a born-again Episcopalian filled with gratitude for salvation. Some of her poems have appeared