abstract, yellow and red, image by Edith Lüthi, on Pixabay, modified Dear readers, contributors, and visitors, Greetings to you! It is such an honor to present the wonderful, creative works of those who have contributed to this issue of Spirit Fire Review. I'm touched by the depth of feeling, the pathos and joy, amazing words that cut right to the heart of a matter, yet also can soothe, offer direction, and encourage those of us along the way. This world has such a need for t
near Norfolk, England, photo by Chris Roe Dawn A gift, An empty space To retreat, To rethink, respond, To recall, understand. Stand still and listen, The wind, The voice of the trees, Words of love You should have spoken, Pathways still to follow. Stand still and listen again, To the silence You have yet to hear, The song, The blackbird, The dawn. ___________________ Chris Roe has a Ph.D. from the University of Edinburgh and is Professor of Psychology at the University of Nor
northern lights, image by Martin Str, on Pixabay Prophecy III. Your Time Isn’t Yours O, the wheeze of the horsemen’s stallions at my neck. White ghost rider—tsunamis’ salty heave on the other side of the world, pheromone of their undertow in slow summer air. On the deck, we watch hummingbirds zither into coral hibiscus flowers. Lifted wings, our burden of knowing time will stop being ours. “Everything is as it always was,” you say. But it isn’t: My son, once turning in my bel
field of barley, image by Uschi Dugulin, on Pixabay, modified A Silent Joy Silent joy trembles so shyly inside my heart when I rise, a morning star left just for me; and, like the waters of a wild river, I rush outdoors, let spring’s light follow me. Today I’ve found the spirit land inside of me and the wind has set me free. Above, red-tailed hawks circle in the sky, the shape of light trickling through their feathered tips; and me waiting till evening sifts through the trees
marbled background, image by Milena Mazurek, on Pixabay, modified Longing for the Infinite, Finding the Finite “The soul must long for God in order to be set aflame by God’s love; but if the soul cannot yet feel the longing, then it must long for the longing. To long for the longing is also from God.” —Meister Eckhart Without settling for any tepid, half-hearted and stifling control, resisting the lure of the superficial and the dull momentum of apathy, the human soul inheren
twilight silhouette, image by Melk Hagelslag, on Pixabay Lord, I tried Lord, I tried to make it on my own,
I tried the world's ways
I listened to the world
Lord, I could never succeed without you.
Lord, I tried a lot
I went to every god
I prayed, I fasted, did so many things
but in a worldly way.
Lord, I could never succeed without you.
Lord, I even tried to bribe you
those others told me I should
tired of sacrifices,
I did so many stupid things
other than connecting wi
muddy shoes, image by Amanda Whitbeck, on Pixabay JOY UNLEASHED Blur of excited flailing for warm cloudy skies and rain. Dimpled smile of glee-filled cry, “Daddy, we go out and play?” Spare not a snail, bug, or frog, for soiled happy hands to toil, wriggling, writhing, wonder in waiting pudgy palms. Hop and splash and jump and spring, with boisterous fits of whirling, with feverish pumping of little legs with cackling screams. If only I could package every tinkle of mirth, ev
(teal necklace, image by birgl, on Pixabay) Conversation between the Jewelry and the Thief Why are you removing me? You need another adventure and I need the nickels. Why are you selling me into an unknown world? Because you are shining, beautiful, and different from me. Do you have no pangs of guilt? No, it is easy to let go of beauty. Dark is much easier that way. Why do you love the dark so much? It is soft like a woolen coat, and I can put my arms through the holes and fo
Find peace in prayer Lift up praise and thanksgiving All in Jesus' name __________________ EG Ted Davis' poetry has appeared in various online and in print literary journals and in miscellaneous Christian publications.
field of daisies, image by Nicky Pe, on Pixabay Beauty in the field On the shore of Lake Michigan, in blueberry country,
there is a field of color, scents, and buzzing bees.
Four acres of poppies, bachelor buttons, and daisies
wedged between the ripening berries and a rural cemetery holding generations of farm
rose in frost, image by Helioz, on Pixabay loss lingers (For Andy) touched by frost the last rose wilts folds in upon itself seeks solace in winter slumber touched by loss the soul wilts folds in upon itself seeks solace in solitude frost and loss both wilt but for most of a given year there is no frost; loss lingers a grief for all seasons First published in Dr. Corkish's book, Corrupted Memories. ___________________________ Dr. Alan Corkish is writer of prose, plays, academ
dandelion, image by Stefan Schweihofer, on Pixabay Dent-de-Leon Still, the dandelion upfurls from blight-knotted ground a blazes in unclocked glory, from parched waste-lots, concrete (mothers'-broken-back)cracks, litter scuttered parkway; all luminous tenacity, mute cells replicating phyllaries, ligules, anthers, taproot. Little lion-tooth. Invasive aster, flares redemptive as church candles from fallow gardens flitched in thistle, urban ditch [shattered glass shine] and glu
canopy of beech trees, image by Gennaro Leonardi, on Pixabay Signs and Wonders The rotting beech, rooted just a few yards from my house, rose like a six-story steeple in the cathedral of trees at the edge of our woods. She’d stood a hundred years or more through sun and snow drought and flood, housed crows and doves, was a ladder to the sky for countless kids. But now she was like a much-loved dog you take to the vet for a merciful end. I watched and wept as men with ladders,
dragonfly, photo by Mark Weinrich Fire-play The dragonfly poses for me revealing the fire-play of its life. I’m stunned by the neon flow in the vein-mesh of its wings like coals ready to ignite. God’s creative majesty dazzles like a priceless jewel, but a diamond has never pulsed with breath. It’s hard to imagine this magnificent creature inhabiting a pond, spending years as a lowly nymph. Yet now its airy presence blazes like sunrise if only for a few days or weeks. Lord, I
a homeless person, image by Myriams-Fotos, on Pixabay Death of a Homeless So ravaged by an icy wind Beneath a black, indifferent sky, A homeless soul the night has pinned, Weighed down inside its cold goodbye. Revealed when first the morning breaks: A casualty of human scorn And poverty its victory takes, Although in God’s own image born. Poor, luckless one whose last tear froze The awful hour their last dream died. A pauper’s pit their last repose— Now with the angels they s
starry sky, image by Vahid Kanani, on Pixabay Breeze Blowing Freely He freely rustles a gentle wind through me, soothing as the fall, refreshing as the new spring. His name— God’s breath. * Dad, Praying I remember the night: I found Dad in his darkened bedroom, kneeling at the side of the bed, arms slung on top the covers, his khakis the only bright thing in the sudden burst of light from me opening the door, his face buried on the bed, rosary wrapped around his hands. Dad di