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Lois P. Jones is host of  Poet’s Café  (KPFK, Los Angeles 90.7 fm), and co-produces the Moonday Poetry Reading Series in Pacific Palisades, California with Alice Pero. She is the poetry editor of Kyoto Journal and a four-time Pushcart nominee. She has work forthcoming in Eyewear and has published in Narrative Magazine, American Poetry Journal, The Nassau Review, Qarrtsiluni, Sierra Nevada Review, Askew, Raven Chronicles, and Antioch University’s Lunch Ticket and other journals in the U.S. and abroad. Her photographs have been published in national journals. Lois’s poems have won honors under IBPC judges Kwame Dawes (Prairie Schooner), Fiona Sampson (Poetry Review) and others. New Yorker staff writer, Dana Goodyear selected “Ouija” as Poem of the Year in the 2010 competition sponsored by Web Del Sol. She is the winner of the 2012 Tiferet Poetry Prize and the 2012 Liakoura Prize and is featured in the Tiferet Talk Interviews, which includes interviews with Robert Pinsky, Ed Hirsch, Julia Cameron and others in 2013.

qi (氣) | Alchemist | Of Roses | From Your Garden


qi ()

Too much fire,
he said.  Close your eyes

and let
your illness ink the stream. 

Abandon the wasp’s sting
in winter.  What you’ve lost -


When the river hits
the far side

of your house    wet

                                             your wings.


“Birth of the Magi” by Peter Shefler


Magi, magos, maguš,
they say you were born

in a letting-go moment
when a father knew

they needed more than magic.
When they could no longer gather

enough for the fire, you came,
an arrow of light

shot down from silence
to the great noise.

What did they know
the nameless ones

who kept vigil
as a mother pushed

your soft skull
from the hearth of her body?

Her shrieks unheard, far
from the crowded kataluma

from the shepherds
and their flocks in the fields.

The musk of afterbirth
still mingling with the hot death

of lamb and ewe, with the soft wool
of swaddling clothes as they placed you

in the wooden trough. Here you lie
in a meadow of darkness, glowing

like a child who does not know
his future. Let me hold you,

your holy gold, all that pours
transforms us.


“Two White Roses” by George Jisho Robertson

Of Roses
for George

we are the night
which surrounds us

but there is nothing
to fear

we are the desire
of white roses

just a breath
of moon between us

swallowing light
down our milky stems

to bloom
among the living.


From Your Garden
    For George

In a frail world
we are wedded
to beginnings.

Sunlight slips
our stems. Petals
married to sepal.
The only way
to survive. A root

is more than
our endless thirst
less than a lifetime

of need.  And oh,
heaven might be
a glimpse
of a trowel, knowing
which growth
to leave

and who,
in this untamed garden
will overtake the rose.