Lights shining in the distance, Leading people to dance, Eating delicious food, Along with friends and family, People praying to god, Surrounded by bright colors, Arrays of flowers, Gifts are given, Fireworks illuminate the sky, The feeling of happiness, Spreads through people, Diwali is here.
From December 1, 2022 until January 31, 2023, we are looking for well-crafted poetry and prose on the theme of Wild Weather. With winter storms, forest fires, and flash floods increasing in severity, our current weather could be considered both fierce and natural—and what is its meaning for us and for our future? How
Short story: Dru Richman, “The Rite.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/the-rite/ Poetry: Terry Cox-Joseph, “Behind the Stone,” https://lawrencehouse.ca/behind-the-stone/ Renee Sgroi, “On the anniversary of your passing,” https://lawrencehouse.ca/on-the-anniversary-of-your-passing/ Jenna Scott, “transition.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/transition/ Joseph Farina, “ritual of fire.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/ritual-of-fire/ Dr. Ronja Vieth, “Mother of Pearl.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/mother-of-pearl/ Perry Wyatt,“The Path.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/the-path/ Sherre Vernon, “Late Spring Rites of the Middle-Aged Apostate.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/late-spring-rites-of-the-middle-aged-apostate/
The twelve-year-old boys and girls sat on the ground in a semi-circle with their fathers sitting behind them, facing the king. The king was seated on the royal throne in full regalia — leopard-skin cape, lion-tooth necklace, golden bracelets encrusted with jewels on both his wrists and ankles, his scepter was made of zebra wood
Easter morning you pull on black hoodie, force calloused feet into red Reebocks, deny three times you’re in a rush, blow off brunch. No leg of lamb for this eighteen-year-old. I slip an oversized card into my purse. Easter, after all, is about hope. I envision you sauntering past hostess stand, late, table for four,
instead of sorrow, i will mark the day with ceremony, from the moment of waking to the feel of my body’s curl under darkening covers i will breathe ritual, so that even coffee’s steam will recognize its incense, offer grounding, so that even work will fall into quiet rhythm. instead of tears i will laugh