Poetry

R.M. Blair 2-01-2012

While he was in jail, two policemen / came to his apartment, took / all his books, sat at his kitchen table / drinking his coffee, and cut out / the forbidden words: kitchen / was first to go;

Annie Deppe 1-01-2012

There were two sets of stairs: the front ones curving and formal while the backstairs rose steep as a canyon wall. As a girl, I used to fly from their heights when I wasn’t falling.

Barbara Crooker 12-01-2011

The amaryllis bulb, dumb as dirt, inert, how can anything spring from this clod, this stone, the pit of some subtropical, atypical, likely inedible fruit?

Ken Sehested 11-01-2011

We all knew it would come.
Someday. Always later.
Mañana.
It comes for us all. Sure.
Of course.
We know that. Someday.
Mañana.

But when someday draws near
for someone you love
whose silenced breath sears
your lungs with flames of grief
and sobs so immense
you wonder:
How dare the sun ascend?
The stars to shine?
Even the yeast to rise!

Richard Schiffman 9-01-2011

Eschewing perfection, they knotted in a flaw,
the human signature and kink that made
the carpet whole -- not less perfect, but more
for the fraying edge, the bleeding dyes
that cloak their treasure in disguise,
an act of indirection modeled from on high:
as when the Deity said Be ...
and out crawled -- the twisted,
the crippled, the deformed.

(for Daniel Berrigan on his ninetieth birthday)

Scott Kinder-Pyle 7-01-2011

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,

Sarah Browning 6-03-2011

In our city we see them sometimes.

Sneha Abraham 4-01-2011

Touched your hem / A thousand times / A face just / Beyond my sight / Space between / Grace, grief

Joseph Ross 3-01-2011

This time they are the ones cauth, though they try to close their eyes.

Noel Julnes-Dehner 2-01-2011

My husband, he die
without water in desert.
Walking Saudi Arabia --
no jobs in Yemen
for policemen
from Somalia.

Rob Soley 1-01-2011

My strokes are halting, not like the imagined fluidity
of the monastic scribes, hunched, by candlelight,
over some ancient text, perhaps the Our Father,

Temple Cone 12-01-2010

Bach wrote his solo cello suites as études, not for performance./
Imagine, the arpeggios of the first prelude, forever private, /

His friend Martha's making soup, because you still /
have to eat. Meanwhile, back in the Garden /

Jesse Nathan 9-01-2010

No, nothing,

she says, that is not God’s, and we approach
a crow ripping the entrails

of a truck-crushed fox, and the crow flees

Priscilla Atkins 8-01-2010

The hospital chaplain who sits in the room of a sick child
in Chicago and brings the child to God—not with words
but by her quiet presence.

Kevin Hadduck 7-01-2010

Over chatter of starlings and grackles,
you hear your father’s voice,
confident and constant as bee hum
in the backyard of your thoughts.

Richard Schiffman 6-01-2010

Somebody noticed this quaking purplish spray
hung incongruous on late-winter's bough,
and tied a festive bow of multicolored yarns
to cheer the anomalous blossoms,

Maryhelen Snyder 4-01-2010

The first thief and the second.

Mary Anne Reese 3-01-2010

Alb: A white liturgical tunic worn as prayer for a heart protected from all stain and washed in the Blood of the Lamb.

Pages

Subscribe