Poetry

Matt Humm 3-01-2003
for Ash Wednesday
Marilyn Robertson 1-01-2003

Possibilities.

Kevin Stuart Brodie 11-01-2002
For Chiune and Yukiko Sugihara
Craig McDonald 9-01-2002
(Based on Mark 7:24-30)
Kelly Sterns 7-01-2002

The summer God was nine years old
Heaven's swamp cooler broke for good.
His Mama was stout yet managed to scale
the side of their trailer, parked off a path
near the woods over by Gabriel's.
She jerry-rigged its fan to flutter
with the backing off her green and purple earring.

God was building insects that day
under the shade of the grapevines by the tree.
He pinched that colorful tool,
ran off for the quiet of his overhanging vines.
Easing the earring out of his overalls
he mimicked his Mama an historic way that day.

Rose Marie Berger 5-01-2002

I once met a woman who—
in a frenzy of wild praise
and to fight the devil—ate glass.

Todd Davis 3-01-2002

Of course it's not what I expected.

Therese Halscheid 1-01-2002

Along the Volga River, Russia 1993

Louise Murphy 11-01-2001

The sky is gorged with snow. 

I keep track of the comings and goings of people.

Scott Cairns 5-01-2001

Your petitions—though they continue to bear

just the one signature—have been duly recorded.

St. Teresa Puts in a Skylight

Linda McCarriston 1-01-2001

Street Person, Portland, Maine: circa 1965

Rod Jellema 11-01-2000

Poetry is like prayer in that it is most effective in
solitude and in the times of solitude as, for
example, in the earliest morning. —Wallace Stevens

William Miller 9-01-2000

A poem

Daniel Lamberton 7-01-2000

You can imagine why they call this ship a tender

Dale M. Kushner 5-01-2000

Very soon now the light shall die.
The Great World will be rent—
ashes, sobbing seraphim, calves
born with crabbed feet. Rain
then the absence of rain.
Wild thunder pounds in my head.

I didn’t follow the holy man around
I never sat down to a meal with him

Loving him began this way: water
poured into emptiness
the bowl filling