Praise God for all things green
Lime jello, blades of grass, emeralds
Chameleons, the neon river frog
Heavy papayas begging to be picked
Poetry
Carol Hamilton 8-01-2008
I expect the whitest dove,
purity as the Spirit breaks apart
firm blue of our ceilinged sky,
a tapered shape, an elegance.
But Picasso was right.
Phyllis Tickle 7-06-2008
July 4 weekend! Now this is a holiday! We won't have another one until Labor Day, but that doesn't even matter right now. What matters is that this is the last day of a glorious three days of blessed interruption. Thank goodness for all such favors.
I [...]
Elizabeth Palmberg 7-01-2008
The dramatic rise in world food prices has pushed millions into poverty. Here's a look at 10 factors--from agrofuel production to rising meat and dairy consumption--that have contributed to this preventable crisis.
Lisa Samson 6-13-2008
When a Eucharist of Humility is Rejected
by Lisa Samson
A dead cold body hung on a tree.
I came to feast; I [...]
Kevin Hadduck 6-01-2008
I have seen that I must
Confess to ignorance
I do not know you, although
I have loved you twenty years
The lifting of your lashes
Confess to ignorance
I do not know you, although
I have loved you twenty years
The lifting of your lashes
Carol Tyx 3-01-2008
Like the iris
in the side yard,
I have stopped blooming.
Dig me up, O Spirit,
and split me; where I have grown
calloused, break me open;
Madeleine Mysko 2-01-2008
Before he was killed in World War I—tragically, just days before the Armistice—the poet Wilfred Owen wrote these words as preface to the book he never got to hold in his hands: “
Kathleen Hirsch 2-01-2008
I cannot tell you why
I taste death;
the cupboards
are reasonably
arranged,
the windows clean as rain.
Jasmine Marshall Armstrong 1-01-2008
The bough we clasped
while climbing towards
phantasmal blue
has broken—
we lie on concrete,
begging with a
shattered golden bowl.
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
Donald W. Shriver Jr. 8-01-2007
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
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
Byron Rempel-Burkholder 3-01-2007
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
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
Edward A. Daugherty 3-01-2007
Common Life, Robert Cording's fifth poetry collection, is informed by religious faith and enacts it.
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
Elizabeth Green 12-01-2005
Using the translated texts of sacred mystical poetry, David Wilcox and his wife, Nance Pettit, have created a recording of spare and intimate beauty, a product of evenings spent by the fire delighting in the words of ancient poets.