Did a dinosaur, long after the ash and dust
Had settled from the volcano, meteor, whatever—
Ever come back, dressed in unfamiliar clothes,
And taking the pick of remembrance, Continue reading . . . “William Hoover: Unearthed”
Lori Hershberger: Dusk, Doi Suthep
Hushed in the still gray fog of July rains
When humanity teems below in wild chatter
How many times have I seen my eastern mountain
Dream by her city.
O little town of Galilee,
A village trapped in darkest night,
A land beyond the distant sea,
We ache with you; we long for light. Continue reading . . . “Cheyenne Sensenig: Emmanuel”
William Hoover: Sonnet for the Beginning of a Volume of Poetry
A poem is a butterfly of truth
Emerging from the chrysalis of thought,
And (as most things when in their pimpled youth)
Begins a worm, unnoticed and unsought, Continue reading . . . “William Hoover: Sonnet for the Beginning of a Volume of Poetry”
Conrad Martin: Unitarian Impressions
The church smelled of high deism in late autumn.
Spare architecture, austere and utterly decent,
tinged with muted hues from the East.
Bouquet of grasses, pale flowers, Continue reading . . . “Conrad Martin: Unitarian Impressions”
The songs are written for the things that shine:
the blades unsheathed and raised by righteous men;
the truth spoken in time; dark gates struck down;
golden gifts given, tokens friend to friend. Continue reading . . . “Claudia Lehman: For Eowyn”
Drawn onward to God
as onward to Goodness,
the child, who rejected
his father now returns home, Continue reading . . . “Kenneth Godoy: Drawn Onward”
Lynn Michael Martin: If I Should Pass With Sorrows
If I should pass with sorrows,
and softly slip away
with the first gray gleam of the morning
of a gently dawning day; Continue reading . . . “Lynn Michael Martin: If I Should Pass With Sorrows”
My mother-heart is bleeding dry
but beating still. Pounding on a silent door.
The knocking makes no noise. No sounding
echo through my still, retreating Continue reading . . . “Daniel Hess: My Mother Heart”
Conrad Martin: This Side Jabbok
You are patient.
But I am endless.
Drawn line and twisted
red gold to a
wick of your ecstasy. Continue reading . . . “Conrad Martin: This Side Jabbok”
