By Jason Ropp

As I man my post —
Espresso bar in bookshop,
An old fellow with
Matching blue windbreaker
And Gilligan hat strolls
Hands gently behind back,
Admiring books, furniture,
And ventilation system.
Wide eyed in old age
As a child.


By Tamara Shoemaker

who takes care of my heart

before, when your curls patterned the crib sheets,
and you shrieked
in the terrors of dark sleep,
i held you, a bundle in my arms,
rocking a gentle rhythm
to the sleepy sound of brahms.
before, when the sky’s gold
could not compete
with the brilliance of your smile,
your first A, the reward of your efforts.
before, when you brought him to the door,
his flowers clutched in nervous sweat.
i watched as you timidly
carved your name in his heart.

who takes care of my heart

as I stare at the empty bed,
the sheet spread in unfamiliar neatness,
a wrinkle-free reminder that you
will begin all over with someone else?

then it will be you who wrestles
with the mistress that is time,
and at last, it will be you who,
like me,
bows your head to her uncompromising pursuit.

For You, if Narnia Was the Land of Your Birth

By Ruthie Voth

if you,
when taking a friend to visit your childhood home,
have to lead them through
a wardrobe door,
or together slip on a pair of rings
and jump into a puddle

if you’ve stared at a painting,
willing the waves to splash off the canvas
and onto your face
if it wouldn’t surprise you to come face to face with a lamb,
wading knee deep in lilies,
speaking to you
with the music of the lion in his voice

if you’ve found yourself crying behind the gym,
too worn down to even hope for an escape
from the voices playing in stereo inside your head
if you’ve longed for a warm breath
to blow the world away from you
and carry you … safely … home

if you’ve run to the end of your strength
before slowing to walk
beside one who has waited long for you
or if you’ve chosen to follow
a leader who (not safe, but good!) will show you
little more than his shadow

then maybe
you also know this feeling of not belonging,
the realization that you were created for more
than this horizon-bound earth has to offer
maybe you also will be eager to step past the cover
and past the title page
to “Further up and further in!”

May 2012

Deep in the hills of southeastern Kentucky, Ruthie and her husband raise their four children and run a Bible camp. Sometimes, in the aftershock of the busyness, her mind clears enough to blog and write a little poetry. 


By Tamara Shoemaker

the same story, repeated over, trails this way
every now and then;

the bayonets, scalded from fire bursts,
life blood the reward of some heated bullet.
men, boys really, who sweat in the sky’s heat
and shake in the season’s cold,
bloody footprints tracked in snow
as shoes grow tired
and eyes sting blind
and rations fail
and hopes sink dim behind endless
marches and ragged formations.

time travels on and bayonets die
under the advance of technology;
bombs, jets, explosives —
how many ways can you kill a man?

the story’s still the same;
the play goes on until
one side or the other pulls the final curtain.
it scrolls across the stage, the last act,
and the players take their bows,
not without scars from their parts.

both sides return to their lives,
indelible ink scribing a story on each heart
that bleeds into history —
a tale of sorrow never forgotten

until the next time.

Tamara Shoemaker’s books include “Broken Crowns,” “Pretty Little Maids” and “Ashes, Ashes.” She lives in Virginia with her husband, Tim, and their three children.

The Chameleon

By Charissa Gingerich


The chameleon spoke.

“Become like me,” he said. “Become like them. Let go of yourself and become what you are not.”

No, I cried. To release me so fully is torture. I would lose myself. I must remain.

“I do not lose me. I stay of shape and size. But I join. Join me.”

If I blend, what of my color? I will become a pale Nothing, a homeless one.

“The Homeless Ones are not what you think.”

What are they? They are without meaning.

“They give meaning.”

But I cannot. If I let go, who will hold me up? What will happen to my story?

A sigh. “To let go… I know. To surrender, ‘knowing nothing of the fall.’”

I pleaded, silently, for release from this call.

But the chameleon would not.

“To become what you cannot but what you would, you must.”

To become what I would… but perhaps I no longer desire.

“You will never stop wanting.”

I want, but I cannot.

“You cannot. Therefore you must.”


A whisper: I will die.

“You will die.”

A moment.

I let go.

Charissa Gingerich lives in Ohio and is a student at Rosedale Bible College. She enjoys writing fiction, including short stories, and poetry.

Back in the Midwest

By Candice Mast


Ablaze in my rearview mirror

The sun rises from battle,

Blood-soaked but brilliant.

I drive past frosted round bales,

Golden harvest in rows of neat containment.

Pencil drawing of a tree on sky,

Leaves excised from precisely half of one oak

By a prevailing wind.

Light, dusty corn soldiers mown down;

Miles of empty fields, rolling to the sky.

The bump of railroad tracks

And the haunted train’s ghostly wail echoing;

The tracks going on to somewhere else.

Back porches with torn screen doors

Chimneys, adding clouds to the gray sky.

Rounded barn, hunched solitary in a field, an old widower

Watching the cars go by.

The sycamores in the woods that border the fields

White lightning among  dark trunks.

A curve of river fills with the fire

Of the turning autumn trees.

A buried pioneer graveyard slides into view.

Choked with forgotten dead

Tall, brown weeds grown over graves;

Only the tops of markers reaching through,

The long sweep of blacktop narrowing into the distance,

Leading me on to somewhere else.


Candice Mast lived for seven years in Bangkok, Thailand and now lives in Columbus, Ohio. She likes writing simple poems, trying to capture some of the beauty around her and the thoughts on her mind.