Poetry

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.

Shane Claiborne 11-07-2008
God of Abraham, Miriam, Hannah, Rizpah, and David...
God of Elijah, Amos, Ruth, Isaiah, Deborah...
God of Mary, John the Baptizer, Peter, Paul, Philemon and Onesimus...
Murray Bodo 11-01-2008

She consoles me as I meditate
before Mass—Julian of Norwich,
that is, who says, “We are clothed,
wrapped in the goodness of God.”

Chandy C. John 9-01-2008

Praise God for all things green

Lime jello, blades of grass, emeralds

Chameleons, the neon river frog

Heavy papayas begging to be picked

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

Summer Sundays with Phyllis Tickle

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
Ed Madden 4-01-2008
beginning with four lines from Taha Muhammad Ali
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;
Kathleen Hirsch 2-01-2008


I cannot tell you why
I taste death;
the cupboards

are reasonably
arranged,
the windows clean as rain.

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: “

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

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
As if religion
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

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 &

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