Poetry

The bough we clasped
while climbing towards
phantasmal blue
has broken—

we lie on concrete,
begging with a
shattered golden bowl.
Daniel Skach-Mills 12-01-2007

My breath pluming white into December
could, to God, be incense rising out
of the puffing thurible of my body.
Up here, it’s impossible to tell for the fog

The eightieth soldier was blown up in Salahuddin Province.

From far-out depths they come,
swell swelling swell,
'til cresting they salute the sky
and tumble towards sand that waits immemorially
to receive them.

Summer u

Rose Marie Berger 7-01-2007

The narcotraficante commanded me
in gestures, take off your blouse.
Then he jerked it, scattering buttons—
smooth and pink—along the ground.

<
Murray Bodo 6-01-2007
As if it matters
    noticing the migrant workers—
    two to a wheelbarrow of concrete—
    mending the walls of the rich
    that exclude them
As if religion
Clifford Rivera 4-01-2007

"The wind blows wherever it pleases." Word?
The scene is played out. We need some Eden!
Were Abba the DJ, He'd spin hymns
To slay.

This afternoon, sir
we nailed God down
He's at the back of the property

He's going nowhere, sir
His feet are stuck
to a block of wood

It's comical, sir

Deb Baker 2-01-2007

I went there once,
to the place you’re imagining.
It was purple, with wild geraniums
under green-bright stars.

All the constellations spelled
words, like &

Michael Borich 1-01-2007

After the olive groves at Samothrace and fog
which billowed up from a green sea,
the rocky sheep path and bleating ewes,
wind and sun—there w

Kathleen Gunton 12-01-2006

She left
with her sack of stones
and one dying rose,
fragrant as Pinot Noir.

Christi Kramer 8-01-2006
At the feet of the mothers.
Amanda Rogers 7-01-2006

Your letter through the slot
slid to the floor and lay quite still
all day, until returning home from work
I seized and tore it open.

Newton Miner 6-01-2006

If ever you have wakened in the night—
the steep blue night, and waited for the tears—
then I must tell you—

Katie Chilton 5-01-2006

Driving east on Jackson Street one morning,
only a couple of blocks from the bungalow on Abe Street
where a few years ago hundreds of people claimed

Wanda Fries 4-01-2006

The poor are with you always—

Michael Borich 3-01-2006

Was the cry they heard a kestrel’s or a distressed gull
or a passing soul or one not wanting to, a disciple
asked as fog burned off the harbor and left the water

glazed with fire: Jesus roused from dozing lightly. Sun
turned the shore rocks ocher. A bee thrummed near;
they watched it hover. John, who squatted to mend a net,

Luci Shaw 1-01-2006

“Two weeks on, the Earth is still vibrating from the massive undersea earthquake off Indonesia Sunday…reverberations like the ringing of a bell….” —AOL News

Murray Bodo 1-01-2006

beneath debris and stench
a hand

your hand withered
stretched forth

waiting for someone’s
be healed

Debra Rienstra 12-01-2005
The Child Jesus Speaks

my mother bleeds for me in a barn
she gives birth in a tree as the flood waters rise
she is a refugee

my mother bends and gathers
she pounds and sweats to quiet many hungers
she is a worker

my mother calls for mercy
she forms pieces of sky into shapes that heal
she is a maker

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