Holy Ghost

By Henry Achak

The light that shines and opens my eyes Brought me to this place. For in the dark, I saw a spark, a glimmer in the inky black. It brought me to this place of Yew, which tastes so strong of sulfur.

And within A little canoe, mirrored in the green stinking swamp. A man sits-– babbles, and rows at speed. Guided by a woman, a woman cloaked in light, whose golden gleam makes shadows longer.

And in my fear, the swamp pulls my feet into the muddy tar. And in my awe, I lean to a yew that seems to sink. Startled, I retreat, and at haste, I flee From this place of stink, of mud and ink.

Of sulfur and Trees that bend And weave

And of a woman, a woman whose golden gleam Will surely lead this man to misery. In the oily black where frogs croak

I turn my back one last time, and the canoe sinks only deeper.

By Sydney Lennard

The zoom of the bus it brings me from the city to brush. Screech to a stop, a lurch and I step off.

With the whoosh of the wind a new picture formed.

A shop made of tires stacked from the roof to the floor.

A whiff of oil and the clank of a wrench.

I stay at the bus stop. and sit down on the bench.

I pull out my camera. and wait for the click.

The worker turns with a subtle smile and I begin my walk through the dust for another mile.

I pull out my camera. and wait for the click.

The worker turns with a subtle smile and I begin my walk through the dust for another mile.