Art by Carl Scharwath: paintography titled "Waiting" Welcome to Spirit Fire Review's newest issue! So pleased to share new work: poetry, essay, art. Thank you for sharing your talents with the world. And thank you to those who visit these pages. May you find it a blessing, to God's glory. CONTENTS October 22, 2016: narrative by Daun M. Wright Pray It Ahead: poems by Linda McCullough Moore Canyon Flame: poems by Mark Weinrich When the World Was Quiet: poem by Nolo Segundo New

abstract, blue and gold, image by Annalise Batista, on Pixabay, modified A New Life August, 1957, your fast ended When a boy of fifteen Gave his heart to Jesus. All that’s left is a grassy spot And one old pine But I’ll forever remember The little white frame church And the altar And that young evangelist Who cried out to God For the lost. * The Beautiful Tears She who would never cry Nor show her soul outside Wept like a lost child In the farthest, darkest pew For no reason

between Jericho and Jerusalem, image by nour tayeh, on unsplash Jericho Roads At the end of the rock-strewn road, fell the walls surrounding Jericho. Spared from destruction, were a harlot’s people, the family of Rahab, Israel’s unlikely ally, and unlikely ancestor of peasants and kings and the King of kings, who came to save us all, when our own walls fall at the ends of our roads. As Jesus walked the road, leaving rebuilt Jericho, a man who was blind begged for mercy and si

open Bible, image by Agnieszka Monk, on Pixabay The Holy Spirit Moves The Holy Spirit moves within to help my mind discern which paths are right, which lead to sin; to teach—if I will learn. I delve into God’s Word. Each time my heart is stirred; His still small voice I’ve heard. Each day His love He proves. The Holy Spirit moves. * Life Is Full of Promises Man’s promises are spoken, kept, and broken every day by sweethearts, friends and family, by those at work and play. The

ripples in a pond, image by stux, on Pixabay Music of the Spirit I never really feel as useful As I want to be, But I love that when I sing, I can offer something good, Coaxing every note out gently, Shaping every word With the care of glassblowing ornaments, Handcrafting clay into a jar To hold these lyrics That mean so much to me, Though every heartwork is meant To be released To a new soul needing to catch it Like a butterfly Making them believe In the potential for beauty

confetti, image by Golda Falk, on Pixabay Surrender I’m ready to give myself up, I come out with my hands high in the air and see what wants to blossom, what needs to finally take a deep breath. ________________ They Told Me My Mother Went to Heaven, but I knew she was likely to be late, that she’d stop at a beauty parlor first. — who’d want to meet God with chipped polish on her nails from hanging for dear life. _________________ Now in the News Some of my molecules are stil

"Waiting," paintography by Carl Scharwath "Angel of the Portal," art by Carl Scharwath "Cloud Reflection," photo by Carl Scharwath ____________________________ Carl Scharwath has appeared globally with 175+ journals selecting his writing or art. Carl has published three poetry books and his latest book Playground of Destiny, from Impspired Press, features poetry, short stories, and photography. His two photography books were published by Praxis in Africa. His photography has

rose, image by Bianca Van Dijk, on Pixabay The Power of Words There was an enormous gathering near the serene park following Valentine’s week. Solitude engulfed my desires of becoming an adult too fast for a geek. The smells of roses, the ambience of romantic grandeur all around. Too much for a soul who still believes in precious letters, expressing emotion in each word. I stood there like a kid, observing every artificial showcase of flattery and flambo

mother with child, art by Isabel Chenot Important Singing From Genesis to Revelation, one of the archetypes that broods over scripture is the woman with her child. She towers over our sacred consciousness, cradling life—in the figure of Eve, “the mother of all living” (Genesis 3:20); of Sarah, mother of promise, full of laughter; of Mary “full of grace;” of the woman in Revelation 12 with the moon under her feet, who carries her child into the wilderness pursued by the dragon

spring, abstract, image by ksushlapush, on Pixabay We before the Judge, our Attorney is present, there is no jury. ____________________ EG Ted Davis' poetry has appeared in various online and in print literary journals and in miscellaneous Christian publications.

metal cross image by fayrowland, on Pixabay See-through cross sees through me or, I should say, the One who died there sees through me— my fears, pretentions, boasts. Sees, loves, forgives. And because He rose to life again, I see the world through that see-through cross— and can see, love, forgive. * stained glass cross, image by Gail Rubin, on Pixabay “He has sent me to heal the brokenhearted... To give them beauty for ashes, The oil of joy for mourning, The garment of pr

spring growth, photo by C. B. Harris New Growth From barren branches a shoot of green appears. Smaller than a speck but growing each day. The hope and the promise of sun and rain. Just as plants spread hope so do each of us in our world and with each other. A kind word sparks a smile from a stranger. Greeting each other on the street affirms our worth. We are called to nurture all who we meet. When we give care for the world, we are all blessed. So fill the world with care an

mountain landscape, image by Heidelbergerin, on Pixabay When the World Was Quiet When the world was quiet And life moved with grace, Time measured by seasons And years instead of minutes, And people saw the world as Close by, with foreign lands Far away, another universe, Not quite real, not quite true, Then the mind could rest, Enjoy the “simple” pleasures Of family and friends and old Neighbors to share old tales. Life was taken slowly then, No faster than a carriage ride,

carnival glass, photo by Janine Pickett WATER OF LIFE High above Forsyth Creek the mountainside is dappled in apricot gold. Just below a thicket of blood red maples conceal a spring. Two water strings dangling with the iridescence of icicles spill from a fractured boulder and flow around an ancient root. Forced from darkness these droplets rejoice, glistening with new birth like pearls of rain. The scrambling climb is worth the struggle just to sit in that tiny alcove and tas

candle, image by Anemone123, on Pixabay Does Jesus Look for Me Even led blindfolded, I leave a trail of bread crumbs in my wake. A scent, sent with intent of being later found. A glow, light on its feet, light at your feet, when darkness comes. An echo, shadow of my former self. A way back, when that is wanted on the day, but somewhere starts the twist: careless dropping pebbles, to be swollen bolder, boulder size. Mortar, metal, noise and railroad ties, not clues, not any si

woman praising God, image by Barbara Jackson, on Pixabay October 22, 2021 I'm on a train heading to Toronto, why? Who is in Toronto? The beat of my heart lives there, my child, my only child, the darling of my bosom, yes, you got it: Kristi. Her name means anointed one. Father, my mind is in turmoil, my heart is uneasy, all these thoughts, Lord, still my mind and keep me focused on you that I can be the strength she needs to stand by her and with her in this season. I've al