I stand on the threshing floor, In the busy harvest season. Seed runs through my fingers like water, Yellow air burns my eyes, and dust Gathers at my feet. I earned an ephah of barley in a day— It is mine, and I take it home to her. It did not come easy; She praises me for my work, and I smile. I am proud of my gleaning. I search for the meaning of these small pieces, Noting the arch of a worker’s back just before Striking dry barley, Noting the blisters bloody and

A shadow of sensation lies therein. The hungered truth is stumbling on the stairs. All pleasure which is measured is a sin And faith misplaced is made of wishful dares. We end up in the sea like all shipwrecks, All bounty in our broken holds are drowned, As memories prolific, fond of sex And drink and taste, are never to be found Again. The churning of the sea assures This, one and all. It washes, purifies And casts the remnants on the tides. The cures Belong to Go

One of the most difficult tasks I face as editor of Ancient Paths Online is sifting through the many excellent poems published throughout the year in order to select just six to nominate for the Pushcart Prize. The process involves a lot of reading and re-reading, and I aim for a certain amount of diversity in the selections. I always wish I could nominate more, because so many of the works Ancient Paths is privileged to publish are not only of high literary quality, but emot

As Mrs. Burns is slouching in her urn I suppose you'd say she'd like to be at peace although Joanna hasn't managed to reserve a plot. The mortgage fails. The debts increase: the unpaid bills are clawing at the door while this old lady's straining to retreat among the mottled stone, this maidenhair. Mrs. Burns's ghost is not some spectral form it's just a TalkTalk person in pursuit or her Facebook account, a newly-born so she could see her grandchildren in bloom. Now

Windblown, rain-born, mothers with children, their aged parents, arm-hung, basket-carried, free pedaling, four-legged, or three-legged, parade forward shunted through electric door to doctors. Bundled up, tied-down, birthers rush down antiseptic hallways. Each patient encapsulated in the flow of life or death, the infirm helpless to resist oncoming scrutiny are side-tracked by the growing-up or winding-down ones. Helpers like strands of DNA shuttle-cock through arterie

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on November 2, 2019. Saul mounted the horse with his band of men Strong-minded in his mission of conquest Going forth from gates of Jerusalem Chastiser of the Cult, he'd be the best. Just who did all these upstarts think they were? He'd account each renegade to justice, To no impure one would he surrender So he rode with his hand clenched in a fist; Suddenly, a glorious light streaming Through the majestic portals of Heave

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on January 6, 2019. Did they camel-caravan together from the slopes of Iran, and navigate by two-out-of-three votes at each fork in the road to stay on their star course? Or did the trio meet beneath palms of a beaten path crossroads energetic personalities drawn like dusty magnets from Europe, Arabia, and Africa to this axis of Bethlehem? They may not have been quite kings, but bore gifts kingly enough, a trinity of heav

Published on January 12, 2019 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page. A butterfly floated face down in the warm pool. So I lifted it up, out of the water to see if it was still alive— by looking into its black eyes for a solemn, kind moment. It fluttered a bit— letting me know it was still alive, and a warmth came over me. Then I held it for a long while in my wet palm, up against the sun streaming in, like I was giving it Communion before last rites. My hand was

Published January 19, 2019 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page. Addie Jones told how she grew up on a farm in Texas—“Dirt poor even before the Depression,” she said. “Sometimes we went weeks and months with nothing to eat but cornmeal mush”, and then she laughed. “They call it polenta now.” Suzanne sat beside the hospital bed in the former dining room and knitted. As a Hospice volunteer, she came for an hour two days a week, time for the caregivers to get out a little, to run

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on January 26, 2019. The hermit said, “I have no need of hacksaws, files, dynamite, or chisels, to break free of my prisons. If I would be consumed by Love; if only I would be consumed by Love; then I would go as easily free as smoke between the bars.” #AncientPathspoems #AncientPathsarchive

Published on February 2, 2019 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page. Last night I walked the autumn woods alone in darkness. The fallen leaves along the trail were ashen in the bright moonlight and the Halloween trees, bleached bones beneath the sky, were like a nameless legion of the dead, that framed a briar pathway for the soul. Never could I have walked between them without discernment, without real faith, without a word of wisdom--. Eternity is a moment that last

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on February 9, 2019. "To everything, there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven" (Ecclesiastes 3). Time passes as the lay of the land calls the tread of the seekers and penitents. The sun God Apollo reigned overall, beauty, wisdom, healing bought him acclaim. The land of Provence is full of the fruit of life, a cornucopia of bounty grows in hallowed valleys along the slopes of the Maritime Alps- all which

Published on the Ancient Paths Faceboo page on February 16, 2019. My metrical sin never goes away, Though I try to measure all that I say. See that spondee? Like a thief, it slipped in, Spoiling my verse with unmusical din; Such is my curse—my words rarely obey! An iambic home is where I would stay, Yet a prosaic ear leads me astray. Of my noted failings, the worst has been My metrical sin. Like Paul, I fight an inherent decay, But knowledge alone can’t keep this at b

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on February 23, 2019. We walk with hands swinging at our sides hair in varying degrees of tidiness. Our faces aren’t smeared with dirt. Blood flows in our veins—red. And yet I can’t say we’re living If we remembered the scent of still-warm blood from someone who couldn’t stay dead. Maybe then we’d wake to something beyond what’s just ahead. #AncientPathspoems #AncientPathsarchive

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on March 2, 2019. Who will take the box With my ashes? Dry and white, It is last of eight. The Buddhist laying Sutras upon the sweet air Speaks like our old ships, Creaking with an age That promises safe passage. We sailed to catch squid, I with gochujang, My mates with strong cigarettes, All with garlic bulbs. We left the testing, The nuclear excitement. Silent, we escaped. Those before us said We might find modern trea

Published March 6, 2019 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page. Cold kitchen rid of lard and all sweetness. Oven unfired, tomb for scents — rosemary, cinnamon. Heedless, a purple crocus bursts its vault. #AshWednesday #AncientPathspoems #AncientPathsarchive

Published March 6, 2019 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page. My soul is like the brilliant snow Which burdened fell one winter day Upon the ground and lost its glow, Soiled and trodden where it lay. It lay there through the dark and cold Until the dawn when sun did rise, And grasp of springtime took its hold To force the snow back to the skies. It stayed away when days were warm, When flowers bloomed and grass was green. It showed not during wind nor storm And until w

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on October 26, 2019. When our world is plunged into darkness we realize we don’t own light. With programmed touch we pat the wall, flick the switch thinking we can summon a burst of brightness. Then anger surges as we wonder who or what is to blame. As if weather has conspired to ruin our plans. We’ll miss a favorite show, the game score. Isn’t it amazing how we act like the sun and moon revolve around us? #Ancien

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on March 16, 2019. Come tender friend of Spring, come vanquish white-sharp night and with your day-stars melt ice-wrapped fields to green. This crystal scene has lost its charm like tarnished jewels and week-old Christmas toys. For we are pressed with you beneath the soil, beside the cold stone steps. One resurrection from the ground is all we need and night is finished. Release your fragrant breath and free the frost-

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on March 23, 2019. And so this thing is death, and this, the dead, And this red blood that mingles with her tears Covers my hand, my shoulder with its smears— Oh, vilest stain that on our world has bled. And so this thing is death, that we desired— This grief, in quest of knowledge, once, we sought— This torment, this anguish, our mocker brought; And we have eaten, as the fiend conspired. And so this thing is death, and so