Ancient Paths Literary Magazine

Ancient Paths Literary Magazine Ancient Paths literary magazine was published in print, and later online, from 1998-2024. You can still read many of the works here and on the blog.

The magazine has published hundreds of quality poems and short stories on spiritual themes. Seventeen issues of Ancient Paths literary magazine were published in print from 1998 - 2011. In 2012, Ancient Paths became an online publication. Ancient Paths now brings you new, quality poetry and short fiction on its page. All works are then archived on the blog. For complete submission guideli

nes, see the website at https://www.skylarb.com/ancient-paths-literary-magazine. Be sure to order a copy of a past print issue to get a feel for the types of works we publish. See a poem you like on our page? Click share and show it to your friends.

01/11/2025

After 25 years of continuous publication, either in print or online, Ancient Paths is closing its doors. These past twenty-five years have been a wondrous journey, and I am thankful to all of the writers, poets, artists, and readers who have shared it with me. I hope you will continue to read and comment on the hundreds of poems and short stories available in the archives and on this page, which I will continue to keep available for the foreseeable future.


Sincerely,
Skylar Hamilton Burris
Editor & Publisher
Ancient Paths

09/11/2024

I re-read this poem, which was previously published in Ancient Paths (Issue 14, 2007), every year at this time:

As Days Go By
by Ida Fasel

The leaves fell early, and I cannot write
Of those who danced at death with such delight
In their descent. I have the shock and horror
Of Milton at the Piedmont massacre.
He made of his stunned silence holy sound
As martyred blood and ash fell to the ground.

I cannot write and yet I have the grief,
The long sob, the Einfühlung without relief.
I cannot write by day so words slip through
At night. I turn by day from vivid view
Of slaughter. I cannot write, I cannot write
Of those who danced at death with such delight.

I cannot write; I stay and yet I leave:
After the cries, the whispers of the grave.

09/10/2023

Kindergarten and Other Fears
by Teri Ruhter



How do you like being four, I ask
Little Lela as she sips her milk.
I wanna be three she answers,
Eyes cast down, quiet.

But you can do more, you’re
Growing and then you’ll
Be five and you can go
To kindergarten, I prattle.

Blue eyes look up as
Little brows furrow.
I don’t wanna go to kindergarten.

I was slow on the uptake, yes,
But now I feel her fear.
Of change, of the future,
The unknown: new building,
New teachers, new kids,
Different, scary.

Because I have my own
Grandmother fears to face.
Of change, of the future,
The unknown: aging,
Loss of vigor, loss of loved ones,
Different, scary.

In Scripture, it says:
"I sought the Lord and he
Answered me and
Delivered me from
All my fears. And:
The angel said to her
Do not be afraid."

I have no winged angels
In my life, no mystical
Encounters with God.
To quell my fears.
Yet, I have his very
Capable minions,
My friends and this
Grandchild who runs
Through the woods
And laughs and climbs
Everything in sight,
Even fire hydrants,
And says about the walk she
Took with her preschool class
It was so great!

She will go to kindergarten
With gusto and she will
Conquer her fears.
She will march into
That school bravely.

I know this to be true
And the vision makes
Me smile, the thought
Gives me the courage
I need to face the
Kindergarten of my
December years.

We are closer to God
Than she knows,
Lela at the beginning
Of life’s circle and me
At the other end.
Someday she will
See we were so close
That our hands could touch.

06/24/2023

"After I Was Raised"
by Liz Dolan

John 11

Sweaty hands touch my garments
as I scoop water from the well. No one understands:
the voluptuousness of the sun, the scent
of breeding women, copper-colored, the chickens
pecking at my toes, the cacophony of chatter
the busybodies, the visitors
with their mitzvahs and challah. Still

Martha clucks about me like a brood hen
oiling my skin, clipping my nails.
And her endless braying
about Jesus, Jesus…kneeling I speak
of the unredeemed souls
I have seen. Tiny cymbals din.
The voice of another rises
in my throat.

06/10/2023

"On Notre Dame, Burning"
by Greg McClelland

The lady was hemorrhaging.
A city’s heart bled red and black
into a somber sky.
Medieval dust, long lain in her crypt,
leapt into the twenty-first century.
Flames framed her surreal bones in relief,
and gargoyles crept to the fringe to escape the heat.
But beyond architecture, beyond sacred architecture,
she is universal Spirit.

Even atheists wept.

06/03/2023

"To an Atheist"
by Tad Tuleja

What does it profit you, Sir, to needle
those down on their knees?
What’s the payoff for slinging that sly smile
against their door,

that Voltaire grin fixed at aloof
that pillories the priest
and sends the child clinging to its nurse
weeping to bed?

Is there not enough misery afoot
to check your dagger,
to make you halt for one moment
of irrational mercy?

And should you prove correct, what then?
What laurels will you drag
to our common destination, to the earth
that governs us all

in the end? What tale will be told
of your passage here
devoted to ensuring that innocents
abandon hope?

05/28/2023

"Pentecost"
(Acts 2,1-11)
by Liz Dolan

And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in foreign tongues...
Denied speech and life,
you, I imagine now,
with The Gift of Tongues,
chastising squirrels and chipmunks
who scurry above disturbing your rest,
clucking at white-tailed deer
who eat winter pansies I planted.
I hear you lark-sing in opaline light,
hear signals you send to beetles and ants
who weave mazes for your lily fingers
as they trace the
glistening umbilical cord
about your neck laced with acorns and berries.

05/14/2023

MOM'S MAPLE DESK CHAIR
by Michael Shoemaker

Sitting on the chair
she worked with
bills, taxes, mail,
pens, paper, and a pad.

In this, smooth chair
varnished with care
her voice within
would hallow it with
silent prayers.

"Father, today, nothing for me,
all for them.
Please, keep my three boys safe
and let them always feel Thy lasting grace."

I never heard these silent prayers,
but know them as well as the scripture memorized.
Looking past her glasses and through her eyes
I see the words in her heart,
the wellspring of love that never dies.

05/13/2023

BABY AND CHILD CARE
for Alin

by Ana Doina

A wrinkle between almost invisible
eyebrows; you frown in your sleep. I have no one
here to tell me what to do, how to love you,
how to care for you, only books by Dr. Spock
on the nightstand—an old translation Father
sent and the newest English-language edition.

Many things do not match anymore. The book
from the old country, stained with grits, gives potion
recipes, breastfeeding advice. The new book,
still smelling of fresh ink, mentions brands
of formula milk, ready-made ointments,
disposable diapers.

Oh, the hours I spent as a little girl swaddling
dolls in cloth diapers! Mother or Aunt Rada
would show me again and again the proper way
to fold and tuck the soft cloth. Their hands so smart!
My own hands clumsy, I feared I’d never be
a good mother.

Now you’re here. Your miniature toes, your fingers
curled in a small velvet fist. Now, the diaper part
is easy. Mother, Aunt Rada sent long letters,
wise advice about feeding, discipline, only
none of it matches your hunger, the formula,
the order of life in the new American
edition of Baby and Child Care, and I have
no one here to teach me a lullaby.

You sigh in your sleep. When you wake up
you’ll look at me, trusting I know how
to fold and swaddle the world, give it
to you just right for your fingers to grasp.
And I can’t read English well enough
to find a lullaby Dr. Spock
might have included in his new book.

You open your eyes, search for my face.
I start singing the only song I know,
about a mother and a child, alone,
one dark winter night.

(Previously Published 2022, Paterson Literary Review No. 50)

05/12/2023

"The Difference in Mothers and Fathers"
by Deana Culberson Johnson

You didn’t carry him
Heavy, protruding middle
The wait and weight between creation and life.
So how can you understand?
As he drifts farther away from me,
He achieves the goal of becoming a man.

You didn’t feel his heartbeat joining with yours or sing to him before he was born.

You didn’t hide him like a secret
Afraid even to breathe
Witness of a miracle
That mothers are destined to receive.

In my womb, he was knit together, God forming his substance and
Authoring his life’s chapters.

You were on the outside,
But my body was the sustaining link
As I waited to feel him move
Brief flutters of butterfly wings.

Then, I felt pain
Ebbing and flowing until the first cry
But today an ache that persists.
In the beginning, he was mine to hold.
Now, he fades into the distance

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Dallas, TX

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