c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


Photograph by Ruben Briseno Reveles

PHOTOGRAPH by Ruben Briseno Reveles

by Jason Dean Arnold

We are mostly made of water
when we're born, but some
is lost as we mature, leaving
children to recognize the sea
as love.

Alone, sitting in the living room of our home,
I swear that I can hear the springs
bubble from an opening in the earth
over a mile away
while Governor's Creek
ribbons around a thick system of roots,
sliding over the surface of rocks
in silence
broken only by the winding
creatures below.

There are forgotten acts
of liquid breathing and weightlessness
inside of me.

The brilliant green canopy wants me.
The springs want me.

They whisper to me,
plead to me,
to come inside and relearn
all that I lost when leaving the womb.

Life exists in your wetlands,
and I recognize your sea
as my own.

You are made of water,
and I desire to drink from you.

Buddha Bodhi Siam by Baxter Jackson

BUDDHA BODHI SIAM by Baxter Jackson

by Ann Floreen Niedringhaus

Ice has no memory of water. In deep winter
it can’t imagine ever being water again.

Robert Creeley wrote … even the world itself
is imagination.

We cannot help but filter out
much of what we see.

Analyzing Antartica’s ice layers, scientists can describe
the earth’s climate patterns over past centuries.

The moment I name something
I diminish it.


Technicians tell us
nothing can ever be completely deleted from a computer.

Albert Camus stated, We all carry within us
our crimes, our betrayals and our ravages.

Some days the world is reversed.
The sun shines from beneath a fog bank.

Therapist Edwin Friedman claimed, Only… poets are
unafraid of ambiguity; everyone else goes to experts.

Every piece of flotsam, tide-tossed,
reappears eventually. Nothing is wasted.


Is it what cannot be said
that has the power?

Each spring cinnamon stick ferns appear overnight.
They grow to three feet tall within a few days.

Sometimes I try to navigate in the dark.
Am I preparing for blindness?

Jane Kenyon wrote … my disordered soul
thirsts after something it cannot name.

In June I found ice chunks
in the middle of the warming compost pile.

Shadow Feet by AllysonSeconds

SHADOW FEET by Allyson Seconds

by B.Z. Niditch

In the windy morning air
the aspiring skies are tender
above our woodland,
a flock of blue jays rustle
the whisper of branches
on my favorite birch,
even sunshine trembles
at the edge of the pond
near the riverbank,
a jogging breathless poet
eager for spring
yet is patient for first light,
a soft glance will lead
these words like shadows
to the shiver of tulips.

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