Poetry

Chandy C. John 09-01-2008

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 08-01-2008

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 07-06-2008

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 07-01-2008

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 06-13-2008

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 06-01-2008
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 04-01-2008
beginning with four lines from Taha Muhammad Ali
Carol Tyx 03-01-2008

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 02-01-2008

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 02-01-2008


I cannot tell you why
I taste death;
the cupboards

are reasonably
arranged,
the windows clean as rain.

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 06-01-2007
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

Edward A. Daugherty 03-01-2007

Common Life, Robert Cording's fifth poetry collection, is informed by religious faith and enacts it.

Deb Baker 02-01-2007

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 01-01-2007

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

Ed Spivey Jr. 11-01-2005
Ever notice how the great novels tend to be really long?

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