Once Upon a Time there was a woman. and she lived. Prince Charming never thundered on his mighty steed from a castle over the hill to bend on one knee with a glinting ring to place cool on her work-hardened hand. But she lived. Hungry birds knew her home when the snow was deepest. Coughing invalids held her name in their hearts. Lonely travelers found hot meals and a warm bed. Crinkled cheeks and cloudy hair recognized the sound of her steps. And she lived. Yes

I. Single The futon’s fabric was bare; the stuffing was shot through with collapse from our sitting lap-stacked in the center. One hundred feature lengths left us engaged and rump-touching the floor. We loved our Gordian tangle of limbs, resisted surrendering those warm apartment dawns ensconced, squared, until we grudgingly gave the bed its dumpster death. II. Double French windows greeted the headboard. They overlooked a cul-de-sac majestic in the Disco Age, now dism

If we still had house churches today, I’m sure they would be adorned with family size bags of Cheetos, air pods, satellite dish hook-ups, K-cups on pantry shelves, folded maps of public transportation, a neighbor’s key hanging on a secure nail, and cat dishes sitting on green mats. And I’m sure the unblinking eyes of a security system would watch you closely through all the heat and the rain, looking down on the unmade beds as well, and the tipsy stack of unread maga

After dinner, the adults chat. I don’t know what they discuss. Their children make demands of me— Bring seven shells down from the shelf so they can discuss what they see. Pour water on Petoskey stones to reveal the honeycomb patterns. Print pages for them to color— a unicorn and a dump truck. They find a yoga mat in a dusty corner, unfurl it to serve as their station. I leave them on the floor coloring. The house settles around them, their room glows with electri

I’ve loved the mourning dove since I was a child— The soft, suffusing sound that always calmed Me then as it does now and must calm, too, All those that hear it: people, grass, the sky. I think the tone, taken two octaves down, Would sound like Jesus’ voice when, at the tomb, John says, he spoke one word, “Mary,” to her Who wrung her hands, not knowing who stood there. Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on August 17, 2019. #AncientPathspoems #AncientPathsarch

Thick rainbow chard and yellow corn; We run past the market tents To where the light hangs over the river In eternal September. Yesterday the sun adored us And showed your smiling faces. Now blue-grey shadows Stretch into the corners of twilight. I stare at the highest branch And pray for a sacred ritual; That wiser words might open us Softly, back to that which we share. Our produce bags are heavy, yet, Amid the piles of sweet apples, my finger Traces the crimson

The raindrops dribble down the shopfront panes while back behind the counter the barista drips her own creation in handled earthenware cups. He's always liked the tables here, the way they're cut with thick pine tops and sturdy legs two inches thick, like they were made to last for longer than a coffee's caffeine buzz, and sipping his drink he greets the grainy dregs with sifting teeth, the neural background beat of study music pulsing in his ears. She used to sit h

every night we become master burpers, sooth sayers, rockers; our prayers go straight up every night we lose our breath, our pace goes a little faster - over excitement while sleep deficit is building up every night ends and daytime brings rest baby turns back into a sleeping angel calmly nursing on a schedule until the next night Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page September 14, 2019 2019 Pushcart Prize Nominee #AncientPathspoems #AncientPathsarchive #Pus

(A Clogyrnach) Ripples whisper through fields of grass At nightfall when no footsteps pass Over this bare hill Where I linger still— But I will stay for mass. Nature’s cathedral boasts no wall; No stained glass windows grace the hall. No vaulted ceiling, No bronze bells pealing— But kneeling, I am tall. Tonight I will not cross the stream Where darkness splinters heaven’s gleam. Yet light fills this place; I see glory’s grace— The Lord’s face in a dream. ~Meadowlar

Four-year-old David who has Downs snuggles into three-year-old Tommy’s chest like a Maine coon cat. He pets Tommy’s head flubs his lips on his pale cheek and laughs with so much heart at the noise it makes, he warms ours. Even though he knows Tommy cannot move nor speak, unlike us he does not give up hope for him maybe recalling when he himself sipped air raggedly through a trach and could not pedal his trike but how last night in falling twilight he did. Publ

Half-uncial script letters almost as tall as my thumb the same thumb that drew a Cross with Holy Water on an infant’s forehead this morning. As our Savior wrote that blessing I was His pen This fine quill still has every fiber in its charcoal gray and black hawk feather although Father Benedict fashioned it sixty years ago. Nightly I tuck it into an ash-wood box softened with wool A silver blade slices a sliver from the pinion’s end to form a new nib someday th

There’s a time of day, just before night becomes, in which I feel powerful. I could take on the entire world, during this brief expanse, I feel the presence in this moment. I never feel the same, when the dawn breaks, the moment of power is fleeting. Yet it will come again, just as the sun and moon vie, low over the horizon, it comes. I relish that moment, when everything is possible, and I am one with my source. Published October 12 on the Ancient Paths

Every year, hundreds of presses nominate poems, short stories, and novel excerpts for the Pushcart Prize. Pushcart Press has been judging and publishing the winning selections in its annual collection, Best of the Small Presses, since 1976. "The Pushcart Prize," writes the editor, "has been a labor of love and independent spirits since its founding. It is one of the last surviving literary co-ops from the 60's." Ancient Paths is pleased to announce the nomination of six poems

Nicholas Samaras was born in England and has lived on the island of Patamos, in Wales, Switzerland, Austria, Yugoslavia, Jerusalem, and America. As a consequence, he describes himself as writing “from a place of permanent exile.” Nicholas writes, he says, “to rescue” and “to make things more real.” The son of a Greek Orthodox bishop and theologian, Nicholas was awarded the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award in 1991 for his first book of poetry, Hands of the Saddlemaker. I had

This poem previously appeared in Issue 7 (Fall 2001) of Ancient Paths. After the Marvelous Healing by Walt McDonald Luke 5:25 His fists shook, his bent legs bound with cloth, hemp ropes around both bandaged feet – a local cripple begging kept alive. And now this simple insult like a threat, a twisted joke Take up your bed and walk, blasphemy like a whip on the poor man’s back. Here, we scolded to save him from blind faith worse than stripes. Years later, stiff and fe

This poem was the third-place winner in Ancient Paths literary magazine’s “Poems for Books” Contest. Sister by Marion Rosser I want to be Mary, sitting enthralled at the feet of the Master, absorbing the words of wisdom and love -- but, I am Martha, grumbling in the kitchen. I know well that the Prophet with the perfumed feet will need some supper and a place to sleep. #AncientPathsarchive #AncientPathspoems #contest

This poem was the first-place winner in Ancient Paths literary magazine’s “Poem for Books Contest.” Beautiful Beloved by Linda Lee McDonald Beautiful beloved, when I first met you, my back was wedged against a closet door trying to keep the monsters inside and in my hand, for luck, was a penny. I thought it was a dollar or a thousand dollars or all of the dollars I would ever need in my whole expensive life. But, it was really just a penny. A green penny -- only a v

This poem was first published in Issue 15 (2009) of Ancient Paths literary magazine. The Last Breakfast by Anne Sheldon The black spine of the dory barely wavers against the red east. He can count his seven friends — Nathanael’s skinny elbows at an angle with the lifted oars; Peter poised to dive into the net; and John — pointing at the sky as if to rhapsodize the bloody dawn. It’s cold. The pebbles hurt his feet. He’ll miss his feet and miss their hurting, too, but

This poem was first published in Issue 14 (2007) of Ancient Paths literary magazine. Blessings by Taylor Graham Last night the horses stood huddled under the great black oak, their breath steaming, each nostril a damp hibiscus opening in the dark. Now through the window, I see that same oak shivering black-trunked in the not-quite dawn. And now, the sun comes shimmering through the branches. Even the stoutest, oldest tree flings wide its light- struck leaves, i

This poem was first published in Issue 14 (2007) of Ancient Paths literary magazine and is now part of the archives. A Guide for the Perplexed by Fredrick Zydek When you can't trust logic or the art of memory, it's time to step past meditation and move into the condition of faith. You must make choices even if fear oozes from every pore and the path winds uphill all the way. The problem of pain must be ignored and the circles of sorrow, which seem to emanate from the bo