Poetry
[Editor's note: The Senate will be voting on the https://secure3.convio.net/sojo/site/Advocacy?cmd=display&page=UserAct
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
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.
As a Sojourners intern last year, I, along with my community-mates, had the opportunity to request speakers to invite to address us during weekly seminars. Peace activist and poet Fr. Daniel Berrigan was on the top of my list.
Alb: A white liturgical tunic worn as prayer for a heart protected from all stain and washed in the Blood of the Lamb.
Because I lay on my back as a boy in the grass of the small yard behind our house watching clouds move and become faces, mostly,
David Denny teaches English at De Anza College in Cupertino, California.
Of all the saints, my Anthony,
I love you best. For you did
what I long to do: you walked away
from a life of comfort and ease,
Politicians were scrambl'n, it wasn't very pretty.
Health care and climate were up in the air,
This is the Month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav’ns eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
The ram’s horn bellowed.
Fused with snapped spears and hatchet heads
nicked shields covered the field,