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,
Poetry
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,
that light kept me a year in its grip first
my feet caught fire then my blood
we moved at the edge of endlessness
headless handless mouthless mind-
Throughout history, individuals and institutions have cited the Bible to support injustices, such as "holy war" against infidels, the subjection of women, racism and slavery, and the abuse of homos
To you who are lost today
like a needle in a haystack, reading this poem alone.
Alone, brother island, sister moon. The ocean is big,
A grace of green, the underleaf
of olive, the birdsong’s
cradling. It’s as though
How the earth now
struggles into spring.
How the cold hangs on,
each morning cracking to begin.
Violet, whispered Eve, because
saying the names aloud
made the act too real. Pansy
and woodruff, the flowers so small
Who am I to cast light upon the human soul?
Sitting down to write peace-verses for mercenary gain,
Hunting for poems and hoping against hope that I need not
The great wheel of the Christian liturgical year is turning once again.
Imperfection is the place where the spirit enters,
the small hole in your shirt, the loosening threads
of carpet, the ache in your soul for forgiveness.