Issue No. 1: Light and Faith

Poetry

Ruminations of a Fortune Teller

By: Allison Gellerstein

​

You’re the best around. Not much of a compliment, though a little flattery goes a long way to trust. Shh… I can hear it, the silence. Your name, your destiny bleeding into the quiet. Or it might be the traffic outside, you’ll never know the difference. Now close your eyes and focus, yes, I see your colors swirling around you. Auras are notoriously capricious, I could easily be confusing it with the muted tapestries in the room… Sip the tea please, it's time to read the leaves. Ohh, I see the, huh, a tree. I sense growth, a time to stretch your abilities and see change. I’m speaking absolute nonsense, but do I have your trust yet? Shh… I can’t see through my crystal ball with your doubt clouding the surface. For it to work you have to believe. That almost sounded real, did you believe it?.... Next are tarot cards. Listen to that snap as you flip the card over. It’s release. Your future is release, relinquished to the dealer of the cards. Do you believe me?

The Life of a Beautiful, Wise Child

 By:  Mia Hahn

​

A cold, frosty day.
The air was dark and foggy,
Everyone was on edge as they awaited the birth of a new child.
A beautiful, wise child.

A young girl, danced through the fields with her wrap around her head.
She helped her mother in the hustling market,
The smell of spices and cooked meat.
She fell and scraped her knees.
It’s okay, her mother shrugged to the child.
The beautiful, wise child.

Frightful, 
powerful people 
invade their loving home,
The warmth of her mother's hidden arms.
Her father told her to go.
Hide,
My beautiful, wise child.

The smell of blood as cattle are pushed through carts,
Shoved into the woods.
A friend,
Separated
From the beautiful, wise child.

The two reunited, as they continue to suffer.
But a spark of light is shone, 
As they revolted and danced under their love,
He was then married,
To the beautiful, wise child.

The taste of freedom as an angel was born,
A wonderful, precious angle.
She was a flower,
A beautiful Lily.
Born,
To the beautiful, wise child.

The flow of a boat as they journeyed to the land of freedom, liberty.
Hand in hand, they were sick, ill.
We’ll get through this,
Said the beautiful, wise child.

The hustle through the streets,
The people alike and unalike.
A small, cramped apartment, 
The three became four.
All of them safely together, 
With the beautiful, wise child.

A grandchild born and wed,
To an alluring woman.
The dancing and simcha,
The singing and sweat.
She smiled, satisfied,
The beautiful, wise child.

To see the day her first great-grandchild is born,
The enormous smile filled her beautiful soul.
She holds the infant close,
Cradling her to the chest 
Of the beautiful, wise child.

But then,
Her laughing,
Singing,
Kind,
Gentle,
Knowledgeable,
Match
Is gone.
Away.
Ten years she will have to live without him.
That beautiful, wise child.

But she laughed,
And cried.
She put on a brave face for everyone to see.
She smiled,
Holds her loved ones near and said,
It’s alright.
It’s a miracle,
To have that kind of love, the faith, the strength
Of the beautiful, wise child.

She fell.
A hard, lethal fall.
Her once useful hip was no longer dancing.
She was no longer singing,
She was humming,
Beautiful melodies for all to hear.
But of course, it’s okay,
For the beautiful, wise child.

One night.
No different from any other.
The air was cool,
The children were smiling.
She was alone,
But people surround her nonetheless,
The beautiful, wise child.

Awoken the next morning, people shook.
She had not woken up.
She had gone to her match.
She is the fire that lights the match.
They are together once again.

They sing and dance in front of the shining lights,
Eight nights of happiness.
They snuggle close as the cool frost blows into their home.
They are reminded of each other,
Their love,
Their legacy.
He is with 
his beautiful, wise child.

And the children, and the grandchildren, and the great-grandchildren.
They cry, they weep,
But they sing.
They pray,
They are happy for their beautiful, wise child.

She is happy.
She is safe.
She has taught all that she has needs to be teach.
She has done all she has needs to get done.
She has loved all that she needs to love.
She has lived all that she needs to live.
That beautiful, wise child.

Square Shaped Fingers Cradle

By: Ariella Weiss

​

Square shaped fingers cradle

The heavy silver frame

Housing the face of a fallen Broadway star

Her earnest expression provided only for

The photographer, drafted in The War

As she sits with her back to

The Park, eleven stories below

Beautiful, but the same stranger

To the little boy, now man,

Whom she forgot to watch grow

That little boy kneels

On the same patterned window seat

Overlooking The Park, eleven stories  below

The bare, shivering trees looking much like him

Stuck and lonely in Grandmother’s parlour

Nose pressed upon the cold panes

He wonders when the Broadway star

Or the Soldier in The War  

Would come back from Europe

All the ways across the Park

The little boy grew

Got married to a girl

Funny and smart, but he hardly knew

And left the window

Overlooking the Park, eleven stories below

They came back to the window

Prewar apartments are hard to come by, you know

The television raised his children

With their backs to

The Park, eleven stories below

Square shaped fingers place

The heavy silver frame back in a drawer

Shook his head with a sigh

Remember when he thought

Fifth Avenue was Europe?

Switching off the television

The children wailed

Come kids, he said

We’re going to spend time together

In the Park eleven stories below

Undying Candle

By: Michal White

​

Like a flame in the night I walk to you

My feet move of their own and I travel

Like a lighthouse guiding a boat home

I try to run to you as I unravel,

But you're far, farther than I thought before

And I don't know how I'll be able to handle

The distance between our broken souls

As I search for your undying candle.

That Day the Music Died

By: Allison Gellerstein

The prophets cried in sharp, stabbing agony

God’s messengers reeled from the revelations

The visions of an unwelcome prayer stunned them

while Judah stared confounded by the pitiful site

of the great critics fallen to their knees

The aftermath of the second great flood since Noah left so many floating, untethered and unmoored.

The prophets, standing with sturdy sea legs on the old Intrepid, distributed life vests to the undulating masses, having given up on words to save them.

Judah’s tenors betrayed their pitch

their voices low and grumbling

They grovelled to a faraway sleeping god

cry out louder and he will hear!

The young boys and girls listened to the steady voice of John Sterling announcing the Yankee game on their waterproof radios as they bobbed in the rising floodwaters.

They made no movement to course correct when the tide pulled them to deeper waters, like a fisherman reeling in his lure.

Judah turned their lifeless song

to lifeless portraits with stone hearts

as the prophets stood lifelessly

with bloodshot eyes and muted lips

Far from the banks of the flooded Hudson, the people raised their voices at the prophets who were sipping rye and whiskey, red-eyed and delirious. With each glass thrown back each transgression of Judah merged with the rest in the river.

Led by Rachel, the angels wept muffled lamentations

The melody of their anguish, low and drawn out, a cadence of wracking sobs, echoed in the halls of the King’s palace.  

Art & Photography

        Galaxy Girl

  By: Michal White

Down the Rabbit Hole

By: Lara Jacobowitz

           Lara Jacobowitz

           Lara Jacobowitz