Poetry

Philip Metres 11-05-2013

Image by K. J. Snoes

If Advent is a time / of waiting, of joyful anticipation, why are we / so often troubled?

Rebecca Kraybill 11-05-2013

Father Michael Doyle's poetry captures a city of despair and hope.

Robert Manaster 10-02-2013

Be the pulse driven from a broken shell.

Cathleen Falsani 9-05-2013
Irish poet Seamus Heaney By Sean O'Connor [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Irish poet Seamus Heaney By Sean O'Connor [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

One of my favorite stories is about the interview I wanted most, but didn’t get.

It was 2005 and I had just signed a contract to write what would be my first book — a collection of profiles of mostly well-known people about their spiritual lives. Artists. Writers. Thinkers. Scientists. The odd rock star.

Sitting in my publisher’s office, she asked me to dream out loud: If I could interview anyone for the project, who was No. 1 on my wish list?

I answered without hesitation: Seamus Heaney.

The Editors 8-07-2013

When most people think of Gaza, surfing is not the first thing that comes to mind. But photo journalist Ryan Rodrick Beiler has an eye for capturing the resilience and richness of life in this occupied land.

Ewuare X. Osayande 8-02-2013

Excerpt from Stand Our Ground: Poems for Trayvon Martin and Marissa Alexander

Leigh Donaldson 7-01-2013

Early morning
before he unlocks the church gate
the rector kneels before
the gridiron fence surrounding the Cathedral,
not in prayer
but to collect empty wine bottles,
snack bags, and used condoms.

Trevor Barton 6-10-2013

Giving hands support a tree. Photo courtesy art4all/shutterstock.com

If I were a tree

     I would like to be

          A giving tree.

Leaves a peaceful green,

     Birds could sit and sing,

          Children laugh and swing

                Upon my branches.

 
Gene Fox 6-05-2013

Detail from "The Sea Stopped Raging," by Barry Moser, from Pennyroyal-Caxton Bible, 1999, used with permission.

From the midst of the nether
world I cried for help.
 —from the Book of Jonah

A gray whale blows off Cardiff Beach,
just beyond the glamour homes,
boutiques, and drive-thru windows,
valet service and all-u-can-eat sushi.
I want to swim out and be swallowed.

 
Jonah’s whale wasn’t Ahab’s, all
tripey white and peg-toothed, but
a strainer of phosphorescent shrimp,
which lamped the reeking gut, like
fireflies we swallowed once, in jars.

Trevor Barton 6-05-2013
St. Francis of Assisi statue in Mexico, PerseoMedusa / Shutterstock.com

St. Francis of Assisi statue in Mexico, PerseoMedusa / Shutterstock.com

Editors Note: The following poem by Trevor Scott Barton was written while he was living in Africa and reading The Little Flowers of St. Francis of Assisi.

Holding you in the palm of my hand
I see your tiny feet and hope you'll live and walk these stony paths
To the pump to get water.
Blessing you in your meekness and gentleness,
You are Jesus to me today.

Trevor Barton 5-28-2013
Follow me illustration, Jesus Cervantes / Shutterstock.com

Follow me illustration, Jesus Cervantes / Shutterstock.com

Kind, tired eyes from too much seeing ...

Worn, battered shoes from too much walking ...

Stained, tattered shirt from too much working ...

Gentle, calloused hands from too much holding ...

Open, humbled heart from too much knowing ...

Rose Marie Berger 5-11-2013

Mass in Las Choapas, Mexico

Kay Stewart 5-10-2013
Katie and Kay, photo courtesy Kay and Gordon Stewart

Katie and Kay, photo courtesy Kay and Gordon Stewart

Yesterday Kay Stewart shared this at the cemetery as we laid to rest the ashes of her first-born daughter Katherine (“Katie”).

For Christ to have gone before us,
To have kept us from ultimate sadness,
To be our brother, our advocate,
The One who ushers in the Kingdom,
Here
And the One to come,

Does not keep us from our digging today.
We still gather here and throw the dirt on our sacred dust,
We take the shovel like all those gone before us
And surrender to the Unknowable—
The place where
Love and Beauty and Kindness grow wild.
Where sorrow has no needs,
Where there is all beginning and
Nothing ends.

...

Bree Devones Hsieh 4-03-2013

Photo by Clay Patrick McBride

I

The crumpled woman pushes through the door
and sees your plump limp limbs

held tight in my buckled arms.

She remembers holding
such sweet eternity.

II

His temple:
life's bright beating softens here.

Some say it holds the place of time,

watch springs wrapped tight
under the bone.

III

Waking, he is held by his father,
whose arms have newly borne

weapons made

to breathe heavily
into our enemy chest.

Betsy Sholl 3-14-2013

Blindfolded and gagged, tossed in the back / of a car -- it's how they gather up young men /

Joseph Bathanti 2-11-2013

Hemorrhaging from the concertina / crown, brass knuckles, scourging, cigarette burns, / lurching the last meter of Golgotha

Judith Werner 1-07-2013

Deep with one savior’s death, how many more?
In observance of which, the Dresden burghers
as usual held Shrove Tuesday circuses
around Our Lady’s Church, the Frauenkirche,
eating pancakes before their fast for Easter.

At midnight, Allies drew ash from their firestorm
on a hundred-thousand heads. Remember,
the Good War’s firesticks on Dresden’s timbers
in revenge for Coventry, where in embers
Ash Wednesday passion plays were once performed,

Theodore Deppe 11-27-2012

A GiveBox in Berlin / Sally McGrane

Something called a GiveBox appeared / this fall on Falckensteinstrasse, and my first gift

Tripp Hudgins 11-12-2012
Ethiopian cross. Photo illustration by Cathleen Falsani.

Ethiopian cross. Photo illustration by Cathleen Falsani.

I cannot
think that you don't
sound
or breathe
weep
or grieve
I will not
think that you don't
want
or ply
the cosmos
with love
or grace
seeking
us
lost again
I can believe
I can lose you
I can thwart you
I can set you up
I can watch you fall
to die
again
you breathe
weep
cry
sing
and I
am here seeking
better signs

Sandra M. Tully 11-02-2012

You wait a long time for Christmas morning
drifting asleep even as the ebony slate of sky
shatters in clarion silence
Glory, Hallelujah!
and shepherds in the hills cast down their rods
look up at angels and find themselves
no longer huddled in darkness
but lucent between the stars.

You, no longer a child but still drifting,
enter the mystery that is darkness
willing to open the gift inside your own singing
recognizing the song of songs from the first Eve—

     We all live for the Light

Pages

Subscribe