Laura Miller: Kansas Summer

The patient thrum of an insect crowd
The air is alive with rattling hum
“This is home,” I think out loud
My heart has missed you, here I come

The air is alive with rattling hum
Cicadas tune up as the sun dips low
My heart has missed you, here I come
Home to seas of gold, where time moves slow

Cicadas commence as the sun dips low,
A glowing ball in an empty sky
Kissing seas of gold as time moves slow
It is quietly lively as evening draws nigh

A glowing ball, an enormous sky
The patient thrum of a buzzing crowd
It is quiet, and lively as evening draws nigh
“This is home,” I think out loud

Laura Miller (2)Laura is a Goshen College student studying Spanish and English, and an avid lover of theatre, linguistics and good food.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Phoebe Anthus: For David’s Daughter

Sure of foot, she is upon the mountain pass,
and swims the seven seas of sorrow
with a strength that daunts the brave;
a strength poured in from unseen hands of love.
She has the eyes of dawn,
that mirror deep the sorrow of the night,
the dizzy stars that swing
from writhing ribs and question, why?

This long year passed away
like a secondary glance,
summed up in minimal smiles
that say “I’m fine,”
yet the indigo forests and crystal dew
cry out the pulse that beats
a sad farewell through purple tears
no one can classify as this or that.
A gentle passion
peering through the swathing of the mind,
calls softly, holds out pleading hands
to touch again
the face of one who loved us as his own.

Ah for day, where never comes the night,
when hearts shall rest within the thoughts of God,
when broken loves lie cradled hand in hand
and separation is at best a memory.

phoebe Phoebe Anthus finds her joy in quiet places, in the eyes of a child or simply in noticing little things. Her passion is to help create beauty out of the brokenness all around us.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Claudia Lehman: After Dinner

We have the gift of speech, we say,
making full use of it.

But there is an older gift,
waiting in the folds between syllables
and in the unexplained pauses at table
and in the drop of the sparrow between wingbeats:
an old gift granted to many more than we.

The mollusk oozing along unaware of Fibonacci’s spiral,
the faraway stars with no hope of being pinned with a Latin badge,
the octopi studying the swaying corals with wise squinted eyes,
the last passenger pigeon, pausing on a telegraph wire,
the roses shedding themselves and withdrawing into seed,
these all give to the world something our garrulous race never does
until Death catches our aimless racing under his wide blanket.

And what, I wonder,
as I listen in vain to the skies,
could be more true than silence?
Except, perhaps, a very few songs,
played slowly from far away.

IMG-1549Claudia Lehman lives in Paltinis, Romania, with her favorite poet, Kyle. She loves teaching, old books, Earl Grey tea, wildflowers, her comfort zone, and a mongrel puppy called Alice.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Kyle Lehman: Quiet Strings

Why would I worry that her heart lies still,
While mine is burning full of eager love?
For April never doubts a daffodil
Can feel, and find its way to warmth above.

And I can’t ask a chrysalis to split
Its shell: her beauty is for those who wait.
No butterfly would ever benefit
If hurried hands took down her garden gate.

Bread, cast on silent waters, is not gone.
And love, as wine upon this precious one,
Is mine to freely give. Thus has God’s Son
Poured out Himself until His own are won.

Let golden strands of grace be slowly spun.
Let Eucharist precede the King’s pavane.

kyle_lehmanKyle Lehman is a teacher and poet who loves to watch things grow, like seeds, strange ideas, hay bales, and the moon.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Lynn Michael Martin: I See Your Face

I see your face in every face I see,
for when you left me, you left me no more
than hopes unsure, that when these glimpses flee,
they will not leave my yearning senses poor
beyond all remedy. Still, though they let
all specters fade; though my fair dreams they mar—
still, you are pure, and I shall see you yet;
over this darkness I shall see a star.
For hope is not a virtue, nor a trait
taught or imputed like some righteousness—
Hope is the world entire of those who wait,
and, seeing beauty, settle not for less.
I see the night; I see your glory fade,
but I recall you when the world was made.

me1.jpgLynn Martin believes that the essence of the universe is joy, and that in poetry there should shine both the earth’s joy and a light from beyond the world.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Chadwick Miller: At the Burial

Soft air waited in the hall
and whispered behind the pews.
A woman’s silent sobbing
echoed through the room.

A young man’s heart
hid within his clothes
as he stood awkward
in the space,
that every friend tried to heal.

How have you been?
“Good, and you?”
Does it matter?
“The weather is gorgeous.”

Soft air waited in the hall
and whispered behind the pews.
Color is magic to a child
but adults have chosen black.

FB_IMG_1514046196304Chadwick Miller is an amateur poet who enjoys life’s experiences, different cultures, and learning from children.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Christopher Good: Paths

Paths beaten to dust beneath footsteps 

slow and sore, worn by far too long a journey. 

Circle-paths burnt hard in the empty rock of a 

troublesome desolation. 


Circle-burnt hearts turned cold in a stony road, 

long but for this desperate quest to end, 

long for the last dust of this path to settle, 

to rest. 


Troubled dust blowing scorched over hard paths,  

charred circles, war-councils, broken cisterns, 

clouds without water, rogue stars, all will 

find troubled peace: 


Late day, dew cools long-dried Eden; 

a single step crushes the silence. 


       Christopher is a deeply opinionated Canadian Christian socialist thinker and craftsman; he enjoys church sociology, literature, languages, music, and building hospitality furniture.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Daniel Hess: Envy Most I Those

Envy most I those
who easily express . . . their thoughts . . .
with words . . . they just dispose
of complex metaphors like stubborn knots.
And clink down words like dominoes.
Some of us remain
confined to poetry, i.e.
(not wishing to complain)
that’s all we see
on which to tie
our damp interior thoughts so they can dry.

IMG_1638 (2)Daniel Hess is a disciple of Jesus, husband of Laura, and father of four who likes discovering the ordinary.

(Photography by Kenneth Godoy)

Emma Miller: Sapient Song to Love

I have walked amid the forest,
leaves low brushing by the face,
and I have reached to offer them to you.
Night has watched me with her wounded dew
hunting hopeful by the grand old roots.

There I have found the thorn
and willed to pierced the flesh,
giving gladly to the drop, life,
that you might live my love.
Lie down and rest your troubled head.
I cannot sleep, but rest in knowing that you do.
Your quiet joy is soft like violets
nestled in the green,
or child fingers over cheeks.
Yet at a sound from under garland wood,
with strengthened quiver full,
you bend the bow.

We call you Arinjay and it seems right:
may no fear seize your golden arrow’s arch,
for bowman in the house of God you are,
and He shall steady up your hand.
You rise from kings, who, under spritely charge,
defied old basilisk with their winged arrows armed.
They marched to silver clarion blasts
and so shall you,
when you have rested, take your aim.
I pray that naught may tread your shadow down
or weight your eyes away from off mountain top,
where comes your help.

You are lovely, my bowman, and I am content
to watch you from corridors of time and space.
I waved to you just now
as you turned to take your stately leave,
and last night I said goodbye.
It is enough to love you silent in my heart,
to see the light of glory in your eyes.
Sleep well sweet love, my bowman-archer-knight.
This heart has found its rest in loving you;
my thoughts are hushed now, as a gentle fawn.
Tomorrow I shall stand, slowly swaying to my feet.
Shall stand, growing strong and rich
with watchful prayer and tender womanhood.
Then I shall step from sackcloth into light.

Sleep well, my bowman, with eternal joy
for blessed you are, and blessed shall ever be.
May Heaven kiss you with her starry skies
and lead you firmly by the hand to victory.

emma_millerRecipe for Emma: 1 part humor, 2 parts poetry, 1 part music and a dash of art, stir continuously until sarcasm is the right consistency, serve with coffee.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Poetry Reading, 8/18

To all who love books and poetry,

The Curator is hosting another poetry reading at the Rabbit and Dragonfly café in downtown Lancaster, PA. It will be held from 3-5 PM this Saturday, August 18th.

Last month we heard a lot of good poems and stories, and finished the afternoon with some incredible discussions. Be sure to join us on Saturday to read or to listen—bring your favorite poems or original compositions! Or if you can’t come, feel free to pass this on to any of your friends who might be interested.

The Curator staff