The Bluestone Review 2025

Poetry

The beauty of the body, this microcosm true, Its soil within, its sky without, Reflecting the universe in all it’s due, Dancing together in endless, timeless route. Breath, the giver and the taker, Inhaling fire, exhaling rain, A cycle that carries me back to my center, Where joy and sorrow breathe as one again. And in my twists, I find my song, A journey of balance, losses, and gains, A winding melody, soft and long, Where roots stretch deep, and branches reign. And in its curves, I see the sky, For the body is a universe contained, From my twisted roots, I rise, Like a map of stars, energy remains

Dreams of Becoming Warm Blooded Paul Jones At least twice in a warm season, we shed our skin-- owl-wise to be rid of old scars, to break out of what held us in. Then to build it up again, every day adding armor, fresh scale by fresh scale. We keep claws sharp to tear, teeth like spikes to impale. With these we kill and eat all the small things we’ve caught. At night in our nests, the branches sway us asleep. Something in us wants to be new, become unique. We have dreams that can never be put into words-- the way dinosaurs fell from trees to become birds.

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